Page 27 of The Billionaire and the Virgin

They headed toward the conference room set aside for the nighttime bingo. The room was filling up, and sure enough, the average age looked to be above fifty-five, maybe more. He could have sworn that someone waved at Marjorie, but she grabbed his arm and steered him to the front. “Let’s sit right up here, shall we? So we can learn.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s easy to figure out,” he told her, letting her drag him over to the table. “They call a number and you mark it down.”

She gave another wildly fake laugh, touched his arm, and her eyes were wide with that manic look. “You’re so smart. I’m sure you’ll have to do my cards for me. I’m terrible at this sort of thing.”

Behind him, he was pretty sure someone snorted. “Ain’t that Marj?” said one voice.

Before he could turn around and question the man, Marjorie touched his arm again. “Could you go get me a drink please? That would be so wonderful and all this bingo has made me thirsty.” She patted her throat as if to demonstrate.

“Uh, we haven’t even started yet, but okay.” He got up and headed to the concession stand set up at the back of the room. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Marjorie gesticulating at the people behind them.

What the hell was going on? He paid for two bottled sodas and headed back to see Marjorie smoothing paper cards on the table in front of them. He offered her one of the drinks, and she looked up. She held a piece of paper out to him. “I bought cards so we can play. I hope that’s okay?”

“Sure.”

“And I got you a marker. You can be blue and I’ll be pink.” She handed him a little blue bottle with a wet sponge on the end. And she touched his arm again.

That was starting to weird him out, it really was.

They sat in awkward silence while the tables filled and everyone waited for the caller to sit down. This should have been the time to have a great, fun conversation with Marjorie, but he was afraid she’d keep doing that weird touch-and-giggle thing. This whole evening was turning into a bust, too. How fucking depressing was that? He’d even worn a sweater-vest for this shit. All for nothing. Frustration mounted and he was relieved when the caller finally sat down.

“This first game will be a blackout,” the caller announced. “You must cover the entire card. I’ll call the first number. B-10.”

The room fell silent. Next to him, Marjorie marked her card. He scanned his, too, but didn’t see the number. Christ, there was nothing more boring than bingo.

“O-75.”

Which one of his assistants had suggested bingo? They were fired. This was like watching paint dry. The next few numbers were called in a droning voice. He daubed at each number on his card, and glanced over at Marjorie. She was busy marking her card, and then looked over at him and gave him a tentative smile. “Having fun?”

“A blast,” he said in a flat voice.

She faltered, and then reached over and marked a number on his card. He looked at her in surprise, and she pointed at the screen. “It’s in the hopper.”

The hopper? There was a screen? “I thought you didn’t know how to play.”

“Oh,” she said, and her eyes went falsely wide. “I don’t. How do we win this one?”

Was she trying to be stupid? “It’s called ‘blackout.’ I think it’s pretty obvious.”

Another crazy giggle erupted from her. “Of course!” She reached over and touched his arm again. A pink smear from her bottle showed on his gray sleeve. “Oh dear.”

He was getting a fucking headache. “Can you stop touching me for five fu— uh, freaking seconds? Please?”

Marjorie flinched backward, and he felt as if he’d kicked a goddamn puppy. “Of course.”

“And stop looking at me like that,” he snapped.

Her eyes got suspiciously shiny and she stared down at her card while the caller droned another number over the microphone.

He should apologize. He really should. Not that he was good at apologizing, but he should at least try, right? Rob heaved a sigh, and then put his marker down, turning toward her. “Look, Marjorie. Maybe we should call this off. Tonight just isn’t working for me—”

She abruptly stood up from the table. “I have to use the bathroom!” Her pink marker bottle rolled onto the ground, and he automatically bent over to get it for her.

When he sat up, though, she wasn’t heading for the restroom at all, but the exit. And she was running.

Well, fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t have started his apology that way. Rob rubbed his face, and then was annoyed to see a blue streak on his hand from his own marker bottle. Goddamn it.

“You’re a prick,” a raspy voice said behind him.

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