Page 165 of The Billionaires

“Don’t get me started on that last one. She’s my sister, yet I’m still not sure why I said yes.”

She glances down. “I think I do.”

If she means the puppy is too cute to resist, she might have a point—not that I’m ready to admit that out loud. Especially not when the little troublemaker is listening. That way lie the most spoiled of dogs.

“What about you?” I ask.

She bats her thick eyelashes. “What about me?”

Nice try. “Does being a socialist interfere with your dating life?”

She snorts. “There’s not much of a dating life to speak of.”

Why do I like the sound of that?

“Nothing serious?” I clarify. “Ever?”

Wait. I should take that back. At work, the head of HR would tell me such questions are inappropriate.

What’s worse is she’s frowning—a rarity for her.

“I’ve only had one serious boyfriend,” she says before I can backpedal. “But things ended badly.”

My food suddenly loses all flavor. “What did he do?” And—completely unrelatedly—how much do assassins charge these days?

My tone must be rougher than I intend because she draws back. “He didn’t hurt me or anything like that—if that’s what you think. He had a short fuse, so we fought in front of my dog a lot—who reacted just like Colossus did when you and I argued the other day.”

Feeling a bite of guilt at the memory, I toss the dog a slice of cucumber from my salad—which he gladly devours.

“But then,” she continues, “when Roach got sick?—”

“Hold on,” I say. “You dated someone named Roach?”

It would be too neat of a coincidence, considering the guy sounds like someone I’d want to squash.

“No. That’s my late dog’s name,” she says. “My ex’s name was Ennis.”

That doesn’t sound all that much better—as it’s one ‘p’ added and one ‘n’ removed from “penis,” which is what this guy sounds like. Or more accurately, a dick.

Then it hits me. “Roach is a reference to the Witcher’s horse, right?” She really is as much of a fan of the game as I am of the books.

She nods. “So, as I started to say, when Roach needed surgery, Ennis thought it was a waste of money. We had a huge fight, and I finally ended things with him.”

My hand clenches over my fork. “What kind of a man puts money ahead of a dog’s life?”

“Spoken like a rich guy,” she says.

“Touché. So what happened?”

“I decided it was worth spending the money on the surgery, and thanks to that, Roach went on to live another two wonderful years. Best money I’ve ever spent.”

“I’m going to talk to my mother,” I say firmly. “She might be interested in opening a fund that provides money for people who need it for medical care of a loved one, be they four-legged or human.”

Her eyes light up. “Great idea. I’ve actually read about your parents’ philanthropy. I think it’s one of the more admirable things that the wealthy do.”

Did Karl Marx think so too? I wonder what she’d think about my own philanthropic project—the one I’ve only recently felt ready to tackle.

She’ll probably think I’m bragging, so it’s best not to go into it.

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