Page 118 of The Billionaires

Ugh. “Forget it, Aphro. Even if he magically turned into a nice person who owned a bunch of charities, his family would never let him date someone like me. They’re the old-money kind of rich, while you and I are white trash.”

“We’re business owners,” Aphrodite says defensively.

“Of tiny businesses,” I say. “And our parents can’t even say that much.”

My dad does pool maintenance, and my mom cleans other people’s houses; both work for a company owned by someone else. Aphrodite’s mom is a hairdresser, and her dad was an anonymous sperm donor that her mom had a one-night stand with. Bruce’s parents, on the other hand, are famous for philanthropy and organizing fundraisers in New York. I doubt I’d know what to say to them if I met them.

She sighs. “Our parents are lower, lower, lower middle class.”

“Yeah,” I say sarcastically. “Same income bracket as Joe Dirt.”

“You know,” she says. “Mood swings and irritability are very common during ovulation.”

I groan. “Can you leave my reproductive organs out of the conversation, please?” Next time I’m over at her place, I’m going to train Uranus to pee in her shoes.

“Okay,” she says. “But only if you tell me everything.”

So I do just that, and it takes most of my drive home because when I get to the part where I’m moving in with Bruce, I have to reiterate my refusal to be Bruce’s baby mama.

“I expect daily reports,” she says when I’m finally finished.

“Sure.” I hang up and park next to my dingy condo complex.

The movers are already waiting outside my door, and they look very high end, for movers. I didn’t even know that was a thing. They call me “ma’am” and handle my crap with care—which makes me wonder if Bruce is paying them more than the stuff they’re about to move is worth.

Either way, when it comes to my sex toys and video games, I don’t want the movers involved. When they’re not looking, I sneak The Squirrel—a lipstick-sized clitoral vibrator—from my nightstand into a Converse shoebox where I keep such things, and then I disconnect my Nintendo Switch dock from the TV and put that and the console into a special carry case along with all of my favorite games.

“Can I help you carry that?” asks one of the movers, reaching for the shoebox.

I take a step back. “No, thanks.”

“What about that?” He gestures at the game carry case.

“No.” I step back again… and trip over my coffee table—which is when many things happen at once.

I flail my arms.

The shoebox and the carry case fly out of my hands.

A mover catches me before I break my back.

Another mover catches the bag with the games, but the side of the shoebox hits the coffee table and pops open, sending sex toys flying in different directions, with a few hitting the movers.

Oh, shit.

Someone kill me now.

Face burning, I extricate myself from my savior, snatch The Squirrel from the floor, and shove it into my pocket.

Except I miss the pocket and the thing falls on the floor again—causing me to have to bend over one more time.

Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d hit my head on something.

To my horror, the dudes pick up the toys nearest them, then nonchalantly stash them back in the shoebox.

Wow. Not a snicker, nor a wink, nor a chuckle. These must be the most professional movers in the world.

“Thanks,” I mumble when the cursed box is handed back to me. “See you at the mansion.”

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