Page 3 of The Billionaires

Then I spot something nearby that makes me feel warm… at least on the inside.

It’s a wall covered in greenery. There are vines, moss, and ferns, which are all great, but there’s also representation from my favorite living thing in the whole world: the cactus.

Unable to stop myself, I walk over to the wall, where I come face to adorable spines with a Haworthia retusa, a.k.a. a star cactus.

“Hi, little cactusie. You’re a real star, aren’t you?” I croon in a soft whisper. Most people don’t understand when I talk to plants in front of them. In fact, they often refer me to a psychiatrist. I lower my voice further. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Cold?”

At home, I know my pet cactus El Duderino so well I can picture (and say out loud) what his reply would be if we lived in a better universe, one where cactuses could talk. I wouldn’t dare reply as this little hottie, though, even if we were better acquainted, because that’s something even fewer witnesses would understand. Instead, I make sure no one is looking, and then I stick my index finger into the soil next to the gorgeous creature.

Yep. The soil feels just right—not too wet. Of course, if I get this job, I’ll bring my trusty tensiometer to be sure.

By saguaro spines, I almost forgot about the job, or more specifically, the interview that will start in a few minutes.

How could I be so scatterbrained? This is not my typical small-business client. This building belongs to a corporation—which means if I get the gig, I’ll finally make the money I need to pay for my college tuition.

Adrenaline spiking, I hurry over to the security desk—and nearly bump into a man wearing huge headphones.

Damn. He’s not even bothering to look at whom he might trample. Then again, if a man was going to ram me, this one might not be a bad specimen for the job. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with angular, brooding features, a Roman nose, and intelligent eyes the color of steel. He has thick, bushy eyebrows, and his dark hair is cut in a spiky fauxhawk Caesar that makes me want to run my fingers through it. Speaking of hair, I wonder if his stubble would feel scratchy on my thigh if he?—

Snap out of it, Juno.

Interview.

A few feet away, the stranger is stopped by some suit. His reaction isn’t pretty. He very nearly growls at the suit.

What a grouch. Is this what I’m going to have to put up with now that I’m going corporate? At least my interview is with a woman, so definitely not this character. I’m not sure how long I could put up with him before snarking back. Not to mention, his looks would be distracting during an interview.

With effort, I tear my gaze away from the annoyingly attractive stranger. I have to focus on getting the job.

Sprinting to the security desk, I hand over my driver’s license to the guy there, explaining that I’m here to interview for the plant caretaker position.

The guard checks my ID and smirks. “Juno, huh? Did your parents name you after that movie?”

If I had a cactus for every time someone made that excuse for a joke, I’d be able to give the Mojave Desert a run for its money.

I smile prettily at him. “You mean the movie that came out in 2007? If that’s your way of saying I look like a teenager, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

He looks back at my ID and whistles. “You’re thirty? I would’ve guessed much younger.”

Someone’s on a roll. That’s the second most common thing I hear, thanks to my height impairment and the cherubic cheeks I’ve yet to grow out of. If he tells me I look wholesome and virginal, we’ll hit the evil trifecta. Or is it that a quadfecta?

Hiding my thoughts behind a megawatt smile, I bat my eyelashes at him. “Thank you. You’re sweet.” Like anti-freeze.

“No problem.” He extends a visitor’s pass my way, but then he pulls it out of my reach at the last second—something I’d hate even if it weren’t for my height. “You don’t have any weapons on you, right?”

I shake my head vehemently and paste on my most innocent smile. As it so happens, I kind of do: in my purse is a cat named Atonic, who is lethal—at least for the few minutes of the day when she isn’t catatonic.

Yes, I know. I’m bringing a live animal to an important interview. I figure I should be safe, though, as there’s a 99.999 percent chance that the cat will sleep through the whole thing. I’m cat-sitting for Pearl, my bestie who failed to inform me that her fur child turns into a beast when left alone. If my dear El Duderino weren’t a cactus, he would’ve already met the giant saguaro in the sky-desert of cactus heaven. Thankfully, though, it’s my furniture that’s taken the brunt of the razor-sharp claws thus far.

“Great.” The guard finally proffers the pass again, and it takes a lot of willpower to gently take it instead of rudely snatching it away.

Should I ask him where I can find the bathroom?

Nah. He seems like the type to make a “pissed off” joke, and I don’t think I could continue being polite if he did. I’ll just have to make sure to locate a bathroom as soon as I get upstairs.

Thanking the guard, I head over to the nearby turnstile and swipe the pass through the reader.

A green light informs me that I can proceed. I step through, only to realize I forgot to ask the guard which elevator bank to take to get to the forty-eighth floor.

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