Page 4 of The Billionaires

With dread, I scan my surroundings. Thanks to my dyslexia, simple tasks like this are stressful. Numbers are particularly tricky for me to read. If I see a phone number without the area code in parenthesis and a dash after the first three digits, my brain wants to melt.

Whew.

There are only two elevator banks, and I can easily parse the numbers that explain where to go. I think. I’m pretty sure the bank on the left is for floors one to twenty-nine, while the other services the rest of the building—including floor forty-eight.

As I head over there, I see the nearest elevator close shut. Then another. And one more.

Ugh. Of course they all left without me. The likelihood of things going wrong must be directly proportional to how badly I want to get my degree and therefore this job.

Wait. I spot the doors of the farthest elevator only beginning to close.

This is my chance.

I sprint for all I’m worth and make it just in time to stick my foot in to prevent the doors from fully closing.

Hmm.

These doors look different from the others. Weird. The important thing is that they actually notice my foot and open up. The alternative would’ve been to lose my foot, and I’m attached to it.

As the elevator reopens, I see a man inside.

The grumpy hottie from earlier.

Oh, boy.

If glares could kill, I’d be a corpse eaten by a vulture and excreted as guano to serve as fertilizer for an industrious cactus.

CHAPTER 3

LUCIUS

The doors open, and I see to whom the pretty foot is attached: a petite woman. Before I can rip into her for daring to use my elevator, she flutters over to the wall with the elevator buttons. She moves too quickly for me to get a good look, but I can see her reflection in a mirrored wall.

Unable to help myself, I stare at it. Even though this woman has delayed me, I find myself curious about her—stupid biology at work once more. In my biology’s defense, this stranger epitomizes the Ancient Roman standards of female beauty. Soft and curvy, with wide hips, small breasts, wheat-colored hair, and large, almond-shaped eyes the shade of honey, she reminds me of some of the statues at my villa. Hell, she’s even as short as the average woman of that time.

Speaking of her stature, it makes it hard to tell how old she is. Based on her reckless behavior, I bet she’s in her early twenties—as in, before brain development is complete.

Why is she staring at the elevator buttons so intently?

Also, is she muttering something?

Morbidly curious, I pause my music and turn off the noise cancellation function on my headphones.

“What kind of an idiot would use Roman numerals for this?” I hear her mumble. “And why are they not in neat rows like all other elevator buttons?”

I clench my jaw.

That “idiot” would be me. I love Roman numerals, and everyone knows this is my elevator. As to the lack of rows, that was the engineer’s idea.

Hesitantly, she presses the button labeled XLIV.

We stop instantly.

She sticks her head out of the elevator, curses under her breath, and presses XLVI.

Again, this seems not to be the floor she needs, so she presses XLIX, then LVIII.

After two more stops, I take my headphones off. “Are you five?” I growl.

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