Page 247 of The Billionaires

Before Adrian gets the chance to place the plate on the floor, Mary walks back into the room holding the candles. She looks at the dog’s snout with a shocked expression.

“That was Adrian speaking for Leo,” I explain. “You’re not hallucinating.”

“That’s not it,” Mary says. “He’s eating one of Mom’s orchids.”

By the time we all examine him, it’s too late. The potted plant has been chewed and swallowed.

Wow. He even grazes like a sheep.

“Will he get sick?” Mom asks Adrian worriedly.

Pulling out his phone, Adrian asks, “What kind of orchid was that?”

“Moth,” Mom says.

He does a quick search and exhales in relief. “It’s safe for both dogs and cats.” Looking at Leo, he adds, “But you’re still being a bad dog.”

The look on Leo’s face could be found in the dictionary under “innocent.”

“I’ll get you a replacement orchid,” Adrian tells Mom.

“Just not a million,” I chime in.

“No need,” Mom says at the same time. “Thanks to your dog, Jane and you met. An orchid is a small price to pay for future grandchildren.”

I was wondering how long before my family would make me want to fall through the floor. Turns out it took entire minutes.

Adrian’s handsome face takes on a fond expression. “It’s been months since our meeting, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

He’s so good at lying. You’d think he were really talking about months ago, when in fact, it was yesterday that we met.

The kettle whistles.

Adrian goes back to his seat and starts checking something on his phone. Mary lights the candles over the stove, while I hand Mom the box with teabags and begin pouring water into the kettle—which takes forever thanks to our crappy water pipes.

A blur of white catches my attention, so I turn toward the table—and gape, as many things happen faster than I can blink.

Leo whooshes forward, clearly going after the plate with peanut butter that we all forgot about during the orchid incident.

At the exact same time, Mary approaches Leo and Adrian, carrying the lit candle.

Oh, no! In his haste to execute the perfect heist, the dog bumps into Mary, which causes her to lose her footing just enough for the candle to come into contact with Adrian’s hair.

Kill me now. The smell reminiscent of burned chicken tells me I didn’t hallucinate what I just saw.

“Oh, my God!” Mary screams.

“Fuck!” Mom shouts.

Yep, all are very reasonable assessments of the situation.

Mind-bogglingly, despite having his hair on fire, the man is still lost in the oblivion of his phone.

“Adrian!” I pour all the water that made it into the kettle onto a gross rag that mom uses to save on paper towels. “You’re on fire!”

Adrian finally pulls away from his phone, his eyes widening.

I cross the distance between us in one leap and smack his burning hair with the wet rag.

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