Page 143 of Dial B for Billionaire

Bennett:

Bring them all. Bring anything that makes you happy.

“That's the look,” Mom says softly, watching me. “The one that tells me you've found the real thing.”

“I think I have,” I admit. “Despite everything that tried to get in our way.”

Serena's phone buzzes loudly on the counter. “Shut up.” She snatches the phone, her cheeks flaming.

“What did he say this time?” Audrey asks with uncharacteristic nosiness.

“Nothing important,” Serena mutters, but she's typing back with suspicious speed.

“If it's nothing important, why are you smiling?” I point out.

“I'm not smiling.”

“You're definitely smiling,” Mom confirms. “It's the same smile Layla gets when Bennett texts.”

“It is not!” But Serena's protest lacks heat, and she's still looking at her phone with an expression that's equal parts exasperation and fondness.

Her phone buzzes again, and this time she can't hide her grin. “He's... actually kind of funny. For a pompous ass.”

“Progress!” I cheer. “What's he saying?”

“He sent me a legal brief titled 'The Case for Why Serena Morgan Should Accept an Official Date,'” she admits reluctantly. “Complete with citations and precedents.”

We all burst into laughter. “That's actually brilliant,” Audrey says. “And completely dorky.”

“Dorky?” Serena looks offended on his behalf. “It's clever. And thoughtful. And...” She stops, realizing what she's admitted. “And I hate all of you.”

“You like him,” I say in a sing-song voice.

“I barely know him.”

“But you want to know him better,” Mom observes with maternal intuition.

Serena's silence is answer enough.

As we finish lunch and return to packing, I watch Serena check her phone with increasing frequency. Each time it lights up with Caleb's name, her whole demeanor softens, just for a moment, before she remembers to look annoyed.

“For what it's worth,” I say while taping another box, “Bennett thinks very highly of Caleb. Says he's one of the most brilliant people he knows.”

“Of course he does,” Serena mutters. “They're both insufferable overachievers.”

By four o'clock, we've packed the last of my belongings.My apartment looks strange stripped of everything that made it mine—bare walls, empty shelves, the echoes of a life I'm ready to leave behind for something better.

“That's it,” I announce, surveying the boxes stacked by the door. “Everything I need for the next chapter.”

My phone buzzes with a new text.

Bennett:

Car service arriving at 4:30. Don't argue about the movers I'm sending.

Me:

Bossy billionaire.

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