Page 9 of Dial B for Billionaire

There’s a beat of time where the bubbles stop then start a few times before the next message pops up.

her:

I do.

I set my drink down and take a quick selfie—city lights behind me, henley unbuttoned, scotch in frame. Relaxed. Casual.

I send it.

A minute passes.

Two.

Three.

The wait is excruciating. I find myself pacing, something I never do.

Then…

her:

My goodness. You're even more handsome than I imagined. That view's not bad either.

me:

Your turn.

Another pause.

Then a photo appears.

I tap it open.

And go completely still.

No.

It's not her.

Not even close.

The woman in the photo is at least twenty years older. Flawless makeup, auburn hair swept into a silky wave. She's reclined against a velvet headboard in a deep red silk robe, holding a glass of wine and smiling like we've been flirting for hours.

Her:

What do you think? I know I’m not the festival girl you were expecting. But I’m a lot of fun. Care to continue our conversation?

I stare at the screen.

Once.

Twice.

No. No, this can't be right.

me:

I think I have the wrong number. Apologies for bothering you.

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