Page 61 of The Billionaires

“If you want, I can arrange for you to fly back,” Lucius says. “I just figured you’d want to see more of what Gainesville has to offer… Plus, we have a photoshoot tomorrow.”

“A photoshoot?”

He explains how he wants to thwart the paparazzi by “leaking” flattering, professionally taken photos of the two of us, looking as happy as someone who doesn’t eat UF cafeteria food.

“That sounds good,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

We head to the limo. I’m not sure why, but despite his assurances of us sleeping in different rooms, I still feel like a virginal Victorian lady anticipating a stroll with a rakish duke—without a chaperone.

“This is what you rented?” I say wonderingly as I stare at the sprawling mansion in front of us. The place looks too fancy, even for the luxury section of Airbnb.

Lucius merely shrugs. “This is the best I could do on short notice.”

So, if he’d had time, he would’ve rented something like a magical castle? Maybe had someone build him a mansion from scratch?

“Should we check it out?” he asks.

I nod, and we spend a few minutes examining the property—which is as spacious inside as it looked from the outside.

When I notice the bored expression on Lucius’s face, I can’t help but say, “Too small?”

“It was supposed to be Colonial style,” he says. “But it looks Mediterranean to me.”

Seriously, I want his problems, just for a day.

Before I can respond, Elijah materializes, ninja-butler style. “Dinner is served.”

The dinner is some delicious grain I don’t recognize with lobster that’s been garnished with caviar—because lobster without caviar is not ritzy enough.

It tastes so good I almost bite my tongue. “Seems like Elijah has overcompensated for the earlier blunder,” I say, lowering my voice. “What grain is this?”

“Teff,” Lucius says. “Shouldn’t you know that? It was one of the earliest plants to be cultivated.”

I resist the urge to hiss. “I don’t know everything about plants. Just lots of things.”

“It’s also the smallest grain,” he says professorially. “Originally grown in Ethiopia.”

Instead of being annoyed, I make a mental note to read into edible plants so I don’t look like a dummy ever again. Oh, and I’ll get Lucius a book on manners. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Anything else.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Tell me about your grandmother.” I eye another lobster piece hungrily. “After all, she is the catalyst for the fartlek.”

Lucius smiles, revealing the full glory of his dimple. “Gram has many stories.”

“Like what?”

“Well”—his smile widens—“she says she knew Andy Warhol.”

“The one who painted Campbell's Soup Cans?”

Lucius nods. “Allegedly, they ate some Campbell’s soup together.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And she loves music. Says she was caught up in Beatlemania, and before that, she was a huge Bob Dylan fan. Claims she even met him on The Tonight Show, Starring Johnny Carson in the summer of ‘63.”

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