Page 29 of The Billionaires

CHAPTER 12

JUNO

Do I see a hint of that dimple? That should probably also go on the no-no list—especially if keeping things platonic is important to him.

To take my mind off the urge to lick said dimple, I shake the paperwork. “Can you explain this in plain English? Translate from the legalese for me.”

He does so as we devour the penis-like clam dish and the next course—a ridiculously delicious plate of wagyu beef. Basically, I just have to keep my mouth shut about our arrangement to everyone, even my family. Which, for the money he’s paying, I’m happy to do.

“That all sounds as reasonable as such things could,” I say when he’s done talking. I spear the last bit of the beef, already mourning its absence. “Now, tell me why.”

He pours us both more wine. “Why what?”

I shrug, unsure of where to start. “Why me? Why not get a real girlfriend? Why would you fake a relationship? Why?—”

The waitress returns, so I stop my torrent of questions.

“Crab meatball soup,” she announces and scurries away.

Lucius grabs a spoon. “You must try this.”

The soup smells divine, but I don’t let that distract me. “You really like to change the subject.”

His Adam’s apple bobs—temptingly, I might add. “What subject am I changing?”

“Why me?” I repeat, then grab my spoon and fill my mouth with some broth and meatball. Maybe if I’m quiet, he’ll feel the need to fill the silence.

Nope. He just joins me in eating. Ass.

I judged too soon, though. After swallowing, he surprises me by saying, “The ‘why you?’ is very simple. You are the person the gossip articles shipped me with.”

Oh, yeah. He even started this whole thing by asking if I’ve read the gossip about us. I feel so special now. My girlfriend qualifications seem to be: has a head and was at the wrong place at the wrong time. And who knows, maybe the head bit was optional.

If the meatballs weren’t so delicious, I’d throw one at his face—to show my appreciation for his candor.

Whatever. My other questions shouldn’t be as damaging to my self-esteem. Though who knows with this guy? Regardless, I ask, “Why not get a real girlfriend?”

“I don’t do girlfriends.”

I snort. “A charmer like you? What a loss for womankind.”

I think I catch him wincing, but it must be either my imagination or one of those micro-expressions that are gone in an eyeblink. Have I gone overboard?

His expression now unreadable, he asks, “You realize I’m only answering your questions because I’m trying to be civil, right?”

This is him being civil? I’d hate to vex this guy.

“Fine,” I say. “I withdraw my statement. Plenty of women would be happy to date you.” Ever since Fifty Shades of Grey, masochism among women has surely been on the rise.

“I know you’re being snide, but it’s true. Many women want to date me… well, my money.”

I nearly choke on my soup. “Am I supposed to feel bad for the poor billionaire? Most people would kill to have your gold-digger problem.”

“And they’d regret it,” he says, unblinking. “If the gold-diggers stop sniffing around me for the duration of our arrangement, that itself will almost make this all worth it.”

“Almost… so that’s not your main reason,” I say. “What is?”

He nods at the papers by my elbow. “Sign the NDA, and I’ll think about telling you.”

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