Page 214 of The Billionaires

A billionaire.

The most eligible bachelor.

Now that she’s said it, it seems like I should’ve seen it. There’s just something ineffable about Adrian, something besides his out-of-this-world looks. If this were Victorian England, I would’ve guessed him to be a duke or some other member of the upper echelon of the ton, so it makes sense that he’s a modern American equivalent. Add to that the fact that he’s walking his dog so close to Billionaires’ Row and buying me clothes at a place that seems to randomly add zeroes to prices, and it seems elementary.

“—don’t you read any tabloids?” the saleswoman asks me, bringing me back to boutique reality.

I shake my head. “Why read tabloids when I can read books?”

She shrugs. “Do you want to try on anything else?”

I dart a glance at Adrian. “What’s your least expensive suit?”

Even if he can afford this, I don’t feel right accepting something that costs this much.

Miss Miller approves. A lavish gift from a gentleman is indelicate because it has the appearance of a bribe upon the lady’s affections. If he insists on a gift, it should be something perishable, and thus not leave any obligation upon the receiver. Things like flowers are good, or fruits and vegetables—so long as they’re not of an indiscreet shape, such as cucumbers.

“That is one of the cheapest suits we have,” the saleslady says. “All I can do is show you another one that’s in a similar price range.”

Wow. The rich do live in their own little world.

I walk up to Adrian. “We have to go to another store.”

“Why?” he asks. “You look amazing in that.”

I bat my eyelashes at him. The phrase “flattery will get you everywhere” is about panties, isn’t it?

Miss Miller considers the warmth in her loins a breach of etiquette.

“This is too much,” I say. “I can’t accept it.”

He sighs. “I don’t feel right about what happened to your clothes. You’d be doing me a favor by accepting.”

Even though my resolve is wavering, I shake my head. “Your conscience will have to manage.”

“How about dinner then?” he asks. “And a chance to launder your suit?”

Dinner involves perishable items, so it would be okay, even in Victorian times, right? And now that I know he’s famous, I don’t have to fear for my safety… as much.

Miss Miller thinks the safety of a lady’s virtue is something she should very much worry about. An unchaperoned dinner is a lot more wicked than a lavish gift.

“Okay,” I surprise myself by saying. “I’ll go to dinner with you, but no laundry. For all I know, you might be a dirty-clothes-smelling pervert.”

I bet the saleslady from earlier overheard that last comment, and it’s taking all her willpower not to chime in—probably in his defense.

“Just dinner,” he says. “Any preferences?”

I shrug. “I’m not too picky.”

His eyes gleam with silver. “What do you think of sushi?”

“That could work,” I say. Truth is, I’m actually excited about that choice. I’ve been craving sushi, but because my mom isn’t a fan, I haven’t eaten it in a while.

“There’s a great place nearby,” he says and names it, but it doesn’t ring a bell. Nor would it, since my sushi restaurant of choice is near my house on Staten Island.

“And you’re sure about the clothes?” he asks, looking me up and down appreciatively.

“Positive.” My rags have dried by now, right?

---