Page 41 of The Billionaires

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.

No doubt black, like his soul.

He looks me in the eyes. “Honey.”

“That’s pretty vague,” I say. “The color of honey varies based on the nectar of the plant the bees eat. Orange blossom honey is lighter, while avocado is a darker amber.”

“Light amber,” he says. “What’s your favorite?”

“Green,” I say without hesitation.

He nods. “What kind of an aspiring botanist would you be otherwise?”

Wait, how does he—? Oh, right, the dossier.

“My turn again,” he says. “When it comes to pets, are you a dog person, a cat person, or a ferret person?”

“How many of your questions are dog related? No, scratch that, what kind of a person is a ferret person?”

“Me.” A hint of a smile plucks at his lips. “I have three of them.”

“Ferrets?” Should I tell him he seems more like a lizard guy? Or someone who owns a hairless cat named Mr. Bigglesworth?

“Is that your next get-to-know-you question?” he asks.

“Why not?”

He tells me about his mother saddling him with the ferrets and the useful factoid that Romans used them to hunt mice.

I cringe. “Do you have mice?” I’m not a fan of mice, rats, gophers, or ground squirrels. They all eat cactuses.

“No mice. Just ferrets.”

Good. “What kind of movies do you like?” I ask.

“It’s my turn to pose a question.”

I groan. “Fine. Go for it.”

“If you had to listen to the same music over and over, loudly, what would it be?”

“That one’s easy as I do that anyway,” I say. “Metallica.”

His eyes widen. “You’re not going to believe this.” He picks up a remote and hands it to me. “Up the volume.”

I do as he says, and the familiar riffs of Enter Sandman blast out of the speakers.

That’s right. He was listening to them in the elevator. How could I forget? I lower the volume back down before the urge to headbang grows too strong. That would mess up my carefully crafted hairdo, and I have a feeling that if the Mohawk guy saw a picture of such an atrocity, he’d find me and shave my head.

“They’re my favorite too,” Lucius says. “I’m just surprised you like them.”

I squeeze the stem of my glass tighter. “Why?”

“You look like you might like Justin Bieber,” he says without a second of hesitation.

If violence isn’t the answer to anything, why does it seem like I’d enjoy it so much? “And you look like you might like Ariana Grande.”

“Touché.” He straightens his tie. “How did you get into Metallica?”

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