Page 75 of Filthy Rich

Fireworks, an explosion, barking dogs—none of it would even register if it was happening right beside us. The world ceases to exist beyond Jake’s arms, Jake’s mouth, and Jake’s words still ringing in my ears. And then, slowly, reluctantly, he pulls away.

“And now I’m going to carry your bag upstairs and place it in your entryway, and then I’m going to turn around and come back downstairs and get in my car.” He runs one finger down the side of my face, on the left side.

My bad side.

“I’m doing this so you don’t have to get as spooky as a horse eyeing a rippling Texas flag. Got it?”

I laugh. “Do horses hate Texas flags?”

“Texas flags specifically?” He shrugs. “No idea, but they hate every other flag I’ve ever seen near them. I had to ride in?—”

“Memory of Tomorrow,” I say.

“Stupid name, but it was a decent film,” he says.

I laugh. “And you rode that white horse.”

“Horse people call them greys,” he says. “They get downright unreasonable about it, even if the horse isn’t grey at all.”

“I didn’t realize you were funny without a script,” I say. “What a relief.”

“You.” He shakes his head and points at me. “I’ve known you were funny all along. It’s one of the things I like best about you.”

Jake grabs my bag, and then he clicks the key to lock his car. He grabs my hand, and we’re suddenly headed up.

“How do you know where my apartment is?”

“Did I mention that my agency is your agency? Bradley’s appallingly bad at choosing passwords—it’s literally his birthday—so I can get anyone’s address that you want.” He squeezes my hand. “Ask me how fun it is to toilet paper Tom Cruise’s house.”

“You didn’t.”

He shrugs. “How else would I know he shouts and pumps his arm like an old man when he runs out wearing Sponge Bob boxers?”

“Sponge Bob?” I’m laughing harder because I have no idea whether he’s serious.

“Sponge Bob and Patrick,” he says. “Not even Squidward.”

I’m laughing so hard when I open my front door that I’m worried I’ll snort.

“Octavia?” My mother’s standing in the kitchen in her underwear.

I scream.

Then I cover Jake’s eyes. “What on earth are you doing here?” I shout.

Mom hasn’t moved a hair, but she is glaring. “You said you’d be gone for two more weeks.”

“I didn’t say you could move in! Why would you be in my apartment?” I look around at the haphazard piles of crap all over my apartment. “And did you bring Oscar the Grouch with you? What is all this garbage?”

Mom wasn’t the tidiest parent around, but we didn’t live like this.

Jake pats my hand and whispers, “Can I have my eyes back?”

Mom swears loudly. “Is that Jake Priest?”

I clamp my hand down harder. “Go put on some clothes, Mom, right now.”

Mom actually arches her back, thrusting her chest out. “I am dressed.”

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