Page 6 of The Billionaires

“Silence, finally,” he says with satisfaction and moves to the side, so I see him jam his finger at the “help” button.

“It’s a miracle that’s not in Latin,” I can’t help but say. “Or Klingon.”

“Hello?” he says into the speaker under the button, his voice dripping with irritation.

No reply, not even static.

“Anyone there?” His annoyance is clearly rising to new heights. “I’m late for an important meeting.”

“And I’m late for an interview,” I chime in, in case it matters.

He pauses to arch a thick eyebrow at me. “An interview? For what position?”

I stand straighter. “I’m sure the likes of you don’t realize this, but the plants in this building don’t take care of themselves.”

Wait. Have I said too much? Could he torpedo my interview—assuming this elevator snafu hasn’t done it already? What does he do here, anyway—design ridiculous elevators? That can’t be a full-time job, can it?

“A tree hugger,” he mutters under his breath. “That tracks.”

What an asshole. I’ve never hugged a tree in my life. I’m too busy talking to them.

He returns his scowling attention to the “help” button—though now I’m thinking it should’ve been labeled as “no help.”

“Hello? Can you hear me?” he shouts. “Answer now, or you’re fired.”

I roll my eyes. “Is it a good idea to be a dick to the person who can save us?”

He blows out an audible breath. “It doesn’t matter. The button must be malfunctioning. They wouldn’t dare ignore me.”

I pull out my trusty phone, a nice and simple Nokia 3310. “Full of yourself much?”

He stares at my hands incredulously. “So that’s why the elevator got stuck. It went through a time warp and transported us to 2008.”

I frown at the lack of reception on my Nokia. “This version was released in 2017.”

“It still looks dumber than a brain-dead crash test dummy.” He proudly pulls an iPhone from his pocket. “This is what a phone should look like.”

I scoff. “That’s what constant distraction looks like. Anyway, if your iNotSoSmartPhone—trademarked—is so great, it should have some reception, right?”

He glances at his screen, but I can tell he already knows the truth: no reception for his darling either.

Still, I can’t resist. “See? Your genius of a phone is just as useless. All it’s good for is turning people into social-media-checking zombies.”

He hides the device, like a protective parent. “On top of all your endearing qualities, you’re a technophobe too?”

I debate throwing my Nokia at his head but decide it’s not worth shelling out sixty-five bucks for a replacement. “Just because I don’t want to be distracted doesn’t mean I’m a technophobe.”

“Actually, my phone is great at blocking out distractions.” He puts the headphones back over his ears. “See?” He presses play, and I hear the faint riffs of heavy metal.

“Very mature,” I mouth at him.

“Sorry,” he says overly loudly. “I can’t hear any distractions.”

Fine. Whatever. At least he has good taste in music. My cactus and I are big fans of Metallica, which is what I think he’s listening to.

I begin to pace back and forth.

I’m stuck, and I’m late. If this elevator jam doesn’t resolve itself in the next minute or two, I can pretty much kiss the new job goodbye—and by extension, my tuition money. No tuition money means no botany degree, which has been my dream for the last few years.

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