Page 20 of Grumpy Billionaire Seeking Wife

“My name’s Erica,” Erica exclaims. “And this is Sabrina, just in case you forgot. We have names; we’re not chicas. We’re not bow-chica-bow-wows or boom-shaka-lakas or whatever you have to say.”

She looks over at Bad Boy Joe and says, “By the way, what is your real name?” She looks over at Rudolpho. "And you, too."

“It’s Rudolpho.”

“Really? Your parents decided to name you Rudolpho?”

“Yeah, and what?” he says obstinately.

“I mean, it’s just a different name. Like, were they in love with Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer or something?”

“Uh, no.”

Erica takes a deep breath. “What about you? What’s your real name? Because I’m not calling you Bad Boy Joe all night.”

“You can call me Steve,” he says finally.

“Oh, so you do have a normal name?”

“I mean, it’s not as cool. It’s not my stage name.”

“Your stage name?” I ask him. “Are you famous?” I want to slap myself for the obviously stupid question. There’s no way in hell this man is famous.

“I mean, not yet, but I’m trying to be the next Eminem, you know what I mean?”

“Uh, so you’re a rapper?”

“Kind of like a mix between rap and reggae. I’m like the white Bob Marley.”

“I knew it!” I exclaim and then press my lips together.

Erica gives me a look.

“You knew what?” Rudolpho asks.

“Nothing. I just thought to myself, ‘Man, Steve seems like he’s heavily influenced by Bob Marley.’”In a bad way, I think in my mind.

“Okay, shall we sit?”

“Yeah, let’s sit.”

“Are we doing this because you’re trying to prove a point to someone? Or because you’re down with the sexy bad boys?” Rudolpho says in a far more astute manner than I would have thought he would. Aside from the last part. Neither he nor Steve is sexy in any way.

“Uh, no. Why would you think that?” Erica asks as if we haven’t just been talking about her brothers and the reason why we were staying.

“You were just talking about how?—”

“Why don’t we all get a drink?” I say quickly. “And move on to the actual date part of this evening.”

“Aight,” Rudolpho says. He steps back toward me, grabs my hand, and squeezes. His palm is wet, and it takes everything in me not to pull away from him. I don’t want to grimace. I don’t want to be rude, but I definitely don’t want to be holding his hand.

“Can I say something, Sabrina?” He looks me up and down.

“Sure…” I say as we head back over to the hostess, who looks at us in an annoyed fashion.

“This way, please,” the hostess says. We follow behind a petite brunette to a long table with high barstools.

I groan. I know my skirt is going to ride up my thighs sitting in these chairs.

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