Page 243 of The Billionaires

I roll my eyes and pick up my phone as I head to my room and lock the door.

“Hi,” Adrian says.

“Hi,” I say, my spine tingling at the sound of his deep voice. “We just got the avalanche of flowers.”

“Ah, good,” Adrian says. “Do you like them?”

“There’s a lot to like. How many flower shops did you empty?”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I blow out a frustrated breath. “There are enough flowers here for two weddings and a funeral.”

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry if I got too many. I’ve never ordered flowers personally before. It’s usually something my assistant handles.”

“Sure. Sure. So you called the flower place and said ‘give me a million flowers?’”

“No. I called, they asked if my budget would be as per usual, I asked if they could make something nice on that budget, and they assured me they could.”

If by “nice,” they meant “enough to invade my house with flowers,” then they were telling the truth.

Cringing in anticipation, I ask, “What was the budget?”

“I don’t think that would be classy for me to say.”

“A thousand?” I ask. “Two? Three?”

“How much would be too much?” he asks, sounding sheepish.

“Oh, god, you spent more than that?”

“Five,” he says. “But like I said, that’s the standard budget when my assistant deals with the florist.”

“Do they maybe provide flowers for weddings?” I ask pointedly.

“Usually, it’s for fundraisers. Speaking of which, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Fundraisers?” I ask, and realize he’s changed the topic quite expertly.

“A fundraiser, singular. It’s a big social event. They call it The Ball.”

“Never heard of it.” But it sounds fancy.

“Well, I’d like for you to go with me,” he says formally. “It would be a great place for us to be seen together.”

“I can’t go to something called The Ball. I don’t have anything to wear.”

“That’ll be easily remedied by a modiste,” he says.

My eyes bulge. “How do you know that word?”

He chuckles. “Bridgerton. I read the book on a lark last night and have already bought the sequel.”

What? Now I want to marry him for real, which isn’t good.

“When is the event?” I ask, trying and failing not to sound breathy.

“Tomorrow. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. I?—”

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