Page 211 of The Billionaires

“Are you sure you’re not being too picky?” Bob asks.

“Oh, am I?” I rattle out the problems with the candidates that include, but are not limited to: a DUI, a racist rant on social media, and restraining orders from three different men.

“Hmm,” Bob says. “Maybe we should find a better agency?”

I scoff. “You think?”

“We’ve got to do this ASAP,” he says. “The relationship has to have lasted a while to sound believable.”

My jaw twitches. “Tell me something I don’t know—and make it good news for a change.”

“The judge we’re most likely to get doesn’t have much of a gender bias,” Bob says.

“That’s great,” I say, and my heart squeezes with hope. Ever since I saw my baby girl at the hospital—or maybe even prior to that—I’ve been doing everything in my power to be able to be in her life, which requires getting joint custody. The truth is, I’d even consider marrying Sydney, her manipulative mother, but not until I’ve exhausted every other possible venue.

“I’ve also heard from the company that scrubs the internet,” Bob says. “Their job is done. Just make sure not to give them any more work to do, and stay away from substances.”

I blow out a breath. “I haven’t touched mushrooms in a few months. LSD even longer. You don’t need to keep bringing that up.”

“Sorry,” Bob says. “You know how important that part is.”

Of course I do, and it’s not Bob I’m angry at, but myself. I mentioned micro-dosing hallucinogens for creativity in some interviews a year back, and Bob has reason to believe the other side might use that to make a case that I have substance abuse issues. Now, should they go that route, they’ll be disappointed when they try to get a hold of any proof of me having said that, and I also happen to be taking regular drug tests to prove I’m clean as the whistle of a referee with OCD.

“Anything else I should know?” I ask Bob.

He launches into the rundown, but I have to stop him before he’s done because I spot the mystery woman coming out of the library.

Judging by her forlorn expression, things didn’t go well at her interview, and if so, I owe her more than just a set of clothes.

“I’ll call you later,” I say to Bob and hang up.

The woman descends the stairs, lost in her thoughts. Then, when she spots us, she narrows her eyes to little specks of amber. “Are you stalking me?”

I gesture at Leo, and in “his” voice reply, “I messed up, so I’m making my human make amends.”

She closes the distance between us and juts a finger at my chest. “As I already told you, I’m not going to your place.”

“Right,” I say in my normal voice. “But there’s a clothing store nearby. How about I buy you a new outfit?”

She sighs. “Is that the fastest way to be rid of you?”

I nod, and Leo stands to his full height and wags his tail at her.

She smiles at the dog, and it’s not a Mona Lisa smile but a wide grin. “His fluffy face reminds me of someone,” she says. “But I can’t recall who.”

“Oh, he gets that a lot,” I deadpan. “He’s got one of those faces, you know.”

Her smile vanishes. “Where is this alleged store?”

I gesture toward Fifth Avenue. “Not far.”

“Fine,” she grumbles and starts walking.

I catch up, and as casually as I can, I ask, “What’s your name?”

She stops. “That’s not something I divulge to complete strangers.”

I extend my hand. “Just to remind you, my name is Adrian. Adrian Westfield.” I pull out my driver’s license and hand it to her. “See? Now I’m not a complete stranger.”

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