Page 12 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

Thanks to the mad Google skills of my gal pals we have determined that Benny eats lunch here alone every Friday. It’s across the street from one of the many cutting-edge, decentralized workspaces that make up his apparently very cutting-edge company.

I tuck a stray hair into my updo. It’s stupid to care how I look. A nice hairdo has no impact on how ashamed I feel for the way I acted back then. A perfect coat of lipstick won’t make Benny think I’m less annoying.

Spine erect, I push open the door and sail in.

“Do you have a reservation?” the woman at the hostess stand asks me.

“No, I’m here to see somebody,” I say.

“Can I check if your party is already seated?”

“Well...” I lean in and peer into the elegant dining room, everything very mod and tasteful. There’s a sea of white-tablecloth-covered tables and a row of booths down one side.

At the very end, alone in a corner booth near the window, I catch sight of him. Benny.

My heart races. It’s that old fear and excitement.

He’s frowning at his phone, light brown hair in an attractive and coherent style, but I’d know him anywhere. I’d even know his hands, what with their highly knuckly knuckles. How much time did I spend staring at those hands during interminable meetings? And of course, his lips, more beautiful than a man’s lips should be, powerful and expressive if not downright sculptural.

“I see him,” I say to the hostess. “We’re good.” I head into the dining room before she can stop me, because I get the feeling this is the kind of place where they don’t let people walk in from the street.

A voice behind me. “Wait, if I could just get the name of the party you’re meeting.”

“It’s fine,” I toss over my shoulder, speeding up.

I’m just a few tables away when Benny looks up, as if he sensed me coming. His stony gaze is a punch of awareness to my soul—a punch that has me reeling, unsure.

I stop in front of his table, feeling weirdly vulnerable. “Okay, so you might not remember me. We worked together at Beau Cirque one summer, back in twenty…uh…”

“I remember you,” he says.

Still that stony expression.Reallynot happy to see me.

I’m secretly panicking at this point. “He’s sooo happy to see her,” I say.

Benny deepens his glower.

“He’s been dreaming of this day!” I add.

Silliness is probably the wrong approach to take, but that’s how nervous I am. I swallow and pull myself together. “Seriously, though, I come bearing news.”

A pair of men have materialized by my side at this point. One lightly touches my elbow. “Mr. Stearnes isn’t to be bothered.”

“It’s okay,” I say, and then I turn to Benny. “I have news. News of the weird and it’s very important, Benny. And it’ll just take a sec.”

Meanwhile, the hostess has caught up to me. She’s apologizing profusely to Benny, as though he’s an active volcano liable to freak out and explode at any moment.

The men are gently trying to steer me toward the exit without touching me. “Mr. Stearnes is lunching now. You’ll have to make an appointment,” one of them says.

I spin back around. “Lunching?! He’s lunching?” I’m grinning, because is there honestly a call forlunchbeing a verb?

Benny sighs darkly, like I’m being tiresome, and maybe I am, but I’m so nervous seeing him again, and of course there’s my dance career hanging in the balance.

Benny waves a hand, all cool and composed.

I almost can’t believe my eyes for a second. What’s up with the Mr. Suave thing? Where are his abrupt, awkward movements?

The men scurry back to their table and the hostess returns to her stand.

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