Page 9 of The Billionaires

He totally looks like a Lucius.

He narrows his eyes at me. “And what’s your name?”

“Juno,” I say, and brace myself for the usual movie connection.

For the first time since we met—and maybe in his life—his lips quirk in a smile, revealing a dimple. “Ah. Like Juno Sospita.”

Wow. I want to live in that dimple. I blink up at him, dazzled, and blurt, “Who?”

The smile is gone without a trace, making me think that I imagined it. In its place is a condescending frown. “Juno the Savior? Queen of the Gods, daughter of Saturn, wife of Jupiter, mother of Vulcan, Mars?—”

“Oh, you mean the Roman goddess,” I interject, feeling dumb. “Yeah, I know all about her. That’s who my parents named me after—her and the month of June, which is when I was born.”

Ugh, why am I babbling? He doesn’t care when I was born. He probably wishes I’d never been born, judging by the glower on his face.

“For someone named after her, you don’t know much,” he says. “Like the fact that the month was named after the goddess, so you weren’t named after Juno and June, just Juno.”

My hands ball into fists inside the sleeves of his enormous jacket. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says with an eyeroll. “Let’s pretend that you did.”

“I have a better idea.” I put on my headphones. “I’m going to pretend you’re not here.”

With that, I resume my audiobook and my pacing. I also pretend not to notice him standing there—a difficult task.

He rubs his eyes like they’re bothering him, then puts on his headphones as well.

The call of my bladder is getting harder to ignore, but ignore it I must. Because what’s the alternative? Ask him to turn away and lift my leg in a corner, like a dog?

He sneezes, startling me.

We lock eyes for a second. Hmm. His steel-gray orbs are red and watery. Is he about to cry over the meeting he’s missing?

He pointedly ups the volume on his phone.

Fine.

I up my volume as well, and the indignation helps me pace a while longer. That is, until my bladder is on the verge of bursting like a balloon in the presence of a five-year-old boy with an ice pick. No. Make that like real estate prices circa 2006.

A few minutes later, I’m positive my body doesn’t know how to utilize the water in my bladder. I’m so thirsty I’m fantasizing about snatching Lucius’s water bottle and making a run for it. Which wouldn’t work at all inside this tiny elevator.

As if to taunt me, he opens said bottle and takes a big swig.

Ugh. I have to cross my legs to stop myself from peeing with envy.

He takes his headphones off with visible irritation. “Why are you looking at my bottle like that?”

I angrily pause my audiobook. “Like what?”

He gestures at my purse. “Don’t you have your own water in that giant bag?”

“No,” I say defensively. The thing is heavy thanks to the cat, so I figured I’d get a drink after the interview. I didn’t know I’d be stuck here.

He glowers harder, then holds out the water bottle.

I hop from foot to foot and shake my head.

“It’s fine,” he says, a bit more cordially. “Have a drink.”

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