Page 13 of The Billionaires

And sneeze.

And wait, rubbing my super-itchy eyes.

What’s taking so long? Then again, why do I care?

Still, I’d be done twice over by now. Do women take longer than men when it comes to relieving themselves? Is that why they head to the bathroom in groups, so they can kill all that dead time with pleasant conversation?

I suppress the irritation. Given the headache squeezing my temples and the gnawing feeling in my stomach, it’s clear that hunger is messing with my head. I may also be coming down with a cold because I have a distinct tickle in my throat and my nose is trying to run. Also, my eyeballs feel like they need to be rubbed with sandpaper, and the urge to sneeze is building again. It’s almost as if?—

A tiny finger pokes me between my shoulder blades.

Finally.

I face her, keeping my expression neutral. Something tells me that if I smile, she’ll turn murderous.

“Did you sanitize that finger before you touched me?” I ask.

She nods.

“Here.” Without meeting my gaze, she hands me the capped bottle.

I take a step back. “No, thanks. That’s yours to keep.”

Without saying a word, she walks over to the giant bag and sets the bottle down on the floor.

My urge to sneeze intensifies. I fight it for as long as I can, but then it happens. I turn away and sneeze. And sneeze again. What the fuck? I locate a tissue in my pocket and manage to catch a third sneeze as she cheerfully says, “Saguaro bless you!” from behind me.

Saguaro, like the cactus?

The idea distracts me enough that I barely catch the fourth sneeze in the tissue. My eyes are full-on running now, and my throat is starting to feel tight. Seriously, what the fuck?

“Are you okay?” she asks, now sounding concerned. “Are you sick?”

Before I can answer, my stomach growls. Loudly.

“Oh, you’re hungry,” she says.

I turn to glare at her. “Is that your doctorly opinion?” My eyes and nose are killing me.

“I’d be nicer to me if I were you,” she says. “I’ve got food.”

My stomach growls louder. “You do?”

“Well.” She darts a glance at the bag. “It’s really for a more desperate situation. Like if we’re here hours from now.”

“Oh?”

She exhales. “It’s cat food.”

My jaw slackens. Did she say cat food?

“Hey, I’m not saying I want to eat cat food,” she says. “But if we have to, this is an organic brand and the main ingredient is chicken. How bad can it be?”

Cat. That’s what’s going on with me.

I point an accusing finger at Juno. “Get away from me. As far as possible.”

Her nostrils flare. “What?”

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