Page 71 of Billion Dollar Dispute

Oliver walks away to see the DJ off.

“Let’s pack up so we can all get out of here,” I say.

“You don’t have to. I’m sure you have somewhere to be on a Saturday night.”

“You seem to think a lot about my life,” I say with a teasing grin.

“I was your age once.” Leaning back slightly, her arms cross as she watches me, a knowing look in her eyes.

“And what did you do?” I’m unsure I want to hear the answer, but curiosity gets the better of me.

“I was out with my friends or with my ex.”

“I’m out with my friends. Unless we aren’t friends?” I raise an eyebrow, half-joking, half-testing.

“We are,” she says with a small smile as her posture relaxes just a little.

“We even shared a drink.” I nudge her lightly, grinning.

Her expression softens as she shakes her head. “You know this is not the same thing as going out and clubbing.”

“So you would club at my age? I would’ve liked to have seen you then.”

“I was fun.” She says it with a playful wink, but there’s something almost wistful in her eyes.

“You are fun.” I smile genuinely.

She sighs deeply, looking away momentarily, a shadow of something crossing her face before she meets my eyes again.

“I don’t feel like my life is fun anymore.”

“You’re not what I thought you’d be like,” I say, studying her closely.

“No?” she asks, tilting her head, her eyes searching mine.

“No. You’re way more fun to be around. I actually enjoy your company,” I add, a little softer, hoping she can tell I mean it.

“I’ll hold you to that when we're back at work on Monday,” she replies with a smile, but I can tell there’s more to her words.

Why does Monday seem so far away?“I look forward to it.”

She bumps my shoulder. “Come on, let's tidy up and get out of here. I’m tired.”

“Okay, now the old lady comes out.”

I squat down, and she squeals. “What are you doing?”

“Give me your shoes.”

“What, no! Are you into feet or something?”

“No, silly. I’m trying to make you more comfortable,” I say, a laugh escaping as she watches me lift her foot, adjusting it gently.

“You know I can take my own shoes off,” she mutters, but she lets me remove one, her hand settling on my back. I reach for the other foot, tapping on it so she lifts it. “I know you can. Figured it’s time someone looked after you.”

“This isn’t a Cinderella story.”

“I’m aware. Cinderella wasn’t a hot single mom.”

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