Page 60 of The Billionaires

Yep. They’re all holding handfuls of bugs, enough to make two more exhibits worth of moths and butterflies.

I stare in horror as the newcomers stuff their mouths with said caterpillars, like starved cuckoos. “Are they?—”

I don’t bother asking the rest of my question because as one, the dudes begin masticating.

Lucius grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here before the puking begins.” He drags me behind him, pushing the caterpillar-munching idiots out of our way.

As we exit, suspicious gagging sounds begin—proving that Lucius was right.

“Still want to attend this fine educational establishment?” Lucius asks as we leave the museum premises.

I look around at the palm trees and the impeccably maintained green spaces. “Yep. I’ll just skip the Greek life.”

“That goes without saying,” he says. “But fine. If you still want to attend, let’s start the tour.”

We do and it’s nice—and not just because the UF campus is a dream. To my surprise, Lucius’s company is what really cinches it for me, probably because he manages the miracle of saying nothing asshole-y throughout, just asks what classes I’ll be taking once I get accepted (not sure), and if I plan to live on campus or not (even less sure).

When I tell him I’m getting tired of the tour, he mysteriously claims there’s one more thing I just have to see and leads me somewhere.

Before I can get too curious, we turn a corner, and I spot a blanket spread out on a patch of grass, with a large basket sitting on it.

A picnic?

“I had Elijah arrange this small surprise,” Lucius says. “The food is courtesy of Gator Dining services—in case you’re curious about what you’ll be eating once you’re accepted.”

Wow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect him of trying to get into my pants.

“There isn’t actual gator meat in there, right?” I ask as I sit on the blanket in lotus pose.

Lucius opens the basket and looks inside with a slight wrinkle of his nose. “Better not be.”

I pull out a black plastic container and examine it. “Looks like chicken and pasta.”

He opens his. “Smells edible.”

He doesn’t look too sure.

With an eyeroll, I dig in… and gag—in unison with Lucius.

“This chicken breast tastes like a shoe sole,” I say after I manage to swallow the contents of my mouth. “I’m guessing Elijah asked for ‘soul food’ in his British accent, and they misunderstood.”

Lucius spits his mouthful of pasta into the container. “Speaking of shoes, this pasta is chewier than laces. As flavorless too.”

Has someone been spoiled by his personal chef? I take a dainty bite of the pasta—and barely manage to swallow it. Either I’ve also been spoiled, or this pasta is to the rest of its kind as Hitler was to the rest of humanity.

“Maybe those dumdums ate the caterpillars because they were an improvement on the cafeteria food?” I speculate.

Lucius takes out his phone and writes a quick text. Then he says, “This is embarrassing. Why don’t I take you to our place? I just asked Elijah to make sure a decent meal is waiting for us there.” In a sterner tone, he adds, “It will be made by my chefs, and Elijah will taste it, personally.”

My eyebrow lifts of its own initiative. “Our place?”

He drops his plastic box into the basket. “I rented something here. Figured we wouldn’t want to rush back to LA.”

“As in… we’re staying overnight?” Can he see my cheeks blushing?

He sighs. “In different rooms, obviously.”

“Obviously.” The pang of disappointment I feel is on par with my experience of this chicken and pasta, combined.

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