Page 291 of The Billionaires

I hate the idea of her getting married to someone who isn’t me. What’s wrong with me? Whatever it is, it’s a major problem because on top of being jealous, I whisper, “The secret paparazzi are taking pictures. Would you mind another kiss for the cameras?”

What am I doing? I have no evidence that the paparazzi are actually taking pictures right now. It’s almost as if I’m trying to?—

Jane moistens her lips, blushes, and nods.

Fuck.

I lean in.

Jane rises on tiptoes.

The crowd goes silent.

We kiss. Just like the prior two times, it’s transcendent. Better than any sex I’ve had.

My time perception goes out the window. I have no idea how long I kiss her, exploring every silky crevice of her mouth, tasting the softness of her lips, inhaling her sweet-scented breath. It’s not until the waltz music stops and everyone claps thunderously that I snap out of the trance and rip myself away from Jane.

“Oh my,” Jane gasps. “I need a drink.”

“Great idea.” I lead her back to our thrones, pop a champagne bottle, and pour us each a flute.

“And now,” the DJ announces, “the best man will give a speech.”

Best man? I wonder who has the balls to claim?—

Of course.

Michael leaps to his feet.

I gulp down my flute, pour another, and repeat the process.

“I’d like to tell a story about how thoughtful Adrian is,” Michael says.

Fuck. Not this story again. I down another glass of champagne and refill Jane’s flute. Maybe if she’s buzzed, she won’t pay close attention to what’s coming.

“Back in our school days, we visited his room a lot,” Michael continues. “Which is how I found what I have since called The Notebook—though please don’t confuse it with the vomit-inducing movie by the same name. In The Notebook, Adrian kept careful records of the things the girls he dated liked and disliked.” He pulls out his phone. “I still have photos of the choiciest pages, and I’d like to share them with everyone, but especially Jane.”

As Michael proceeds, Jane leans in and whispers, “Is any of it true?”

I nod ruefully. “It’s the inventor in me, I guess. I always want the best way to get things done. The most efficient. The?—”

Loud laughter drowns my next words.

Of course. Michael has got to the point in the journal where I wrote my careful ruminations on the subject of anal sex.

To my huge relief, Warren snatches the microphone away from Michael.

“This man is an impostor,” Warren says. “I’m actually Adrian’s best man, which is why I have an even better story to tell.”

Fuck. What could he?—

Ah. He tells them about the time he challenged me to invent something original (omitting the part about us being stoned), and how I answered the challenge by working out a process to make fabric from the casein in cheese.

Jane raises an eyebrow.

“It’s true,” I say. “In fact, I made a t-shirt from a particularly stinky cheese and gave it to Warren as a gift.”

Jane laughs as Warren concludes the story with, “So now, if evil cows from space devour all the cotton in the world, thanks to Adrian, we can still wear socks.”

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