Page 73 of The Billionaires

Oh, well. I don’t need to worry, as all this is moot. Lucius will obviously say no, and then my conscience will be clear. Or clearer, which is the best I can hope for considering all the lies.

“I don’t think he’ll call today,” I tell El Duderino after I finish my dinner and check his soil.

Dude. If you want to talk to this dude, why not call him yourself?

Hmm. Maybe I should. He’s injured, so I might not look so desperate if I inquire about his health.

It would even be the polite thing to do.

Dude. You’re overthinking this. Just call. The dude will be happy to?—

My phone rings. I check the screen, then look at my cactus triumphantly. “It’s Lucius.”

Dude. You speak of this dude, and he calls. Just like that Devil dude.

I take a deep breath, trying to tamp down on my excitement as I pick up and say hi.

“Hello,” Lucius says.

No “how are you?”

I’m just going to assume that was implied, so I say, “I’m doing great. Got a chance to catch up on work. How about you?”

“My day was productive. The land is finally mine, and it’s perfect for Novus Rome.”

I squeeze the phone tighter. “I meant ‘how does your head feel?’”

“Then why didn’t you say that?” he asks.

“Touché. How does your head feel?”

“Much better. The worst thing about that whole mess is the endless stream of apologies from Elijah. I’m not sure if he’s going for irony, but I’ve got more of a headache thanks to that than from his gunslinging.”

“You poor baby, you’ve got a loyal employee who feels bad after he caused you bodily harm.” I look at my cactus with exasperation.

Dude. Easy on the sarcasm. The dude was mortally injured.

“Touché,” Lucius says. “But that’s enough about that.”

I walk over to my bed and sit on the edge. “Fine. There was something I wanted to ask you, actually. Or more like, I promised my parents to ask you, but I’m sure you’ll say no, and that’s fine.”

“Promised to ask me what?”

I bite my lip. “They’ve learned about us thanks to some magazine article and?—”

“Did the magazine use the photos from our shoot?” he asks.

“I didn’t ask that,” I say. “Because that wasn’t the point.”

“What was?”

I sigh. “That they think I have a boyfriend.”

“That’s implied.”

“And so…” I take a breath. “They’d like to meet you. But I totally understand if?—”

“Yes,” he says confidently.

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