Page 63 of The Billionaires

“What about your dad and his family?”

His lips flatten. “My father wasn’t there when I was growing up, so I have no interest in him now, and my grandparents on his side have passed away.”

My hand reaches of its own accord to cover his. “One day, you’re going to make a family of your own.” It will not be with me, but I’m sure the list of volunteers would stretch from here to Antarctica.

He glances at my hand with such a strange expression that I yank it back.

His face changes again.

Is that disappointment? Anger? Would his future face—the robotic one—also be this difficult to read?

After a few seconds of silence as uncomfortable as a bed of nails, he says, “I’m not sure I’m the type to make a family.”

CHAPTER 24

LUCIUS

Fuck. Why did I say that?

Now there’s pity in her eyes—and I loathe pity. What’s worse is that I’m lying. I can picture a family pretty well—and she’s in it, but that’s crazy. The three-hour difference between California and Florida must’ve given me the worst case of jetlag in history—one that comes with delusions on top of everything else.

Or, more likely, I’m starting to forget the fartlek is not a real relationship.

I push my plate away, half the delicacies on it unfinished.

Juno regards me with confusion.

I stand up. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

Now she gapes at me like lobsters are crawling out of my eyes and puking caviar.

Which makes sense. Even I, far from an expert on manners, know that leaving her here mid-dinner is rude. But it’s better than the alternative, which would be lashing out at a woman who’s gone out of her way to be pleasant—even though that wasn’t part of our contract.

Some inner decision made, she purses her lips and pushes her own plate away. “It’s not your appetite. I think it’s the time difference. It’s not dinnertime back home.”

I’m beginning to regret my impulsivity. Damn biology and the emotions that go along with it. Now we’re committed to cutting dinner short and will both miss the lychee panna cotta that was going to be the dessert.

“Do you want me to show you your bedroom?” I ask, feeling like an idiot.

She shakes her head. “It’s two corridors down, on the left, right?”

“Left, right,” I say.

She doesn’t say anything back, not even a thanks, so I fill the silence with, “There’s a new toothbrush waiting there for you, and a tube of Sensodyne, as well as a bottle of Neutrogena shampoo and Dove body wash.”

Fuck. Why did I blurt all that?

As expected, there’s now a mutinous expression in her eyes. Before she can start with her signature snide remarks, I say, “I noticed the products you use when I peeked into your bathroom the other day. This isn’t from the dossier.”

She looks skeptical. However, all she says is, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I reply and stride into my bedroom, where I go through my evening routine before I realize how stupid that is.

We’re three hours ahead, and it’s not yet bedtime even in Florida.

Oh, well. I could use the alone time to work on Novus Rome—which now, thanks in part to Juno, has a plot of land.

At three a.m. local time—midnight at home—I strip to my boxers and head to bed.

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