Page 235 of The Billionaires

Again, she reviews it all quickly and doesn’t think there’s anything that raises red flags for her.

“Where should I send the money for your lawyer?” I ask.

She tells me, and I take care of it then and there.

When she confirms she’s got it, I walk over to the fridge. “Now on to more pleasant matters. How about dessert?”

She pushes her sparkling-clean plate away. “What do you have?”

“Parfait,” I say. “Île flottante and my take on the macaron.”

She puts a hand to her belly. “I’m not sure I have room.”

I take out the parfait and two spoons. “Try this.”

She gingerly spoons the custard-like concoction I made, but when she sticks it in her mouth, her eyes roll back in pleasure—making the situation with Yoda almost painful.

“How is it?” I ask as I eat a spoonful, doing my best to keep the huskiness out of my voice.

“Too much chocolate,” she says. “And the strawberries must not have been fresh.”

This time, I can’t help but defend myself. “That’s carob, not chocolate, and the strawberries were in a powdered form—made from freeze-dried strawberries that were the perfect freshness and ripeness at the moment of drying.”

She shrugs. “Taste is very subjective.”

“What kind of food do you like?” I ask, deciding not to push her further. “I figure that’s something a husband should know about his wife.”

I see her spoon approaching the parfait, but she stops herself. “It’s a split between kedgeree, Yorkshire pudding, jam tarts, and crumpets.”

I grin. “What they ate in Victorian England?”

She doesn’t return my smile. “They’re not really my favorites. In fact, I’ve never tried any of them. It’s just a list I can spout off the top of my head, so if you memorize it, we’ll be in sync if there’s a test later.”

I memorize the list and sigh. “I’ll make your life even easier: my favorite food is sushi from the place we visited tonight—the one where I’m no longer welcome.”

She cocks her head. “Your favorite is the most expensive place on Earth. Very relatable.”

I push the parfait her way. “Do you mind finishing it? There’s too little left to put back in the fridge.”

“If I must.” She demolishes the dessert and then looks at me expectantly. “Background check, contracts—do you have any other unpleasantries you want to get out of the way?”

“Not that I can think of,” I say. “Would you like to see the rest of my home?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s getting late.”

“You are going to be moving in here,” I remind her. “Plus, it’s a good way to learn more about me.”

“I’ve learned enough.” She stands up. “Mom is expecting me.”

Shit. I hope she’s not pulling out. I walk her to the door. “Can I get you a ride?”

“No,” she says vehemently. “I’ll get my own Uber.”

Fuck. This is about Jennifer’s painting.

“In that case, text me when you get home.”

“Fine.” She does her best martyr impersonation and dashes into the elevator without so much as a goodbye.

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