Page 16 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“Why not? Why wouldn’t you…”

“WhywouldI?” I ask her. “Give me one good reason to give away something of mine for nothing.”

“Wait, what?” She sits up. Blinks. “Give away something ofmine?Did you literally just say that?”

This is a rhetorical question that I don’t bother to answer.

“Are you trying to be funny?” she asks.

“Do I seem like I’m being funny?”

Her dark brows draw together and she cocks her head at a new angle. She’s beginning to see that I’m in the driver’s seat now.

“Give away something ofmine,though? I mean…mine?” Here she pauses. “Something of mine, Benny? So I’m something of yours?” She’s waiting for me to hear how ridiculous it is.

Newsflash: That won’t be happening.

“Mine!” she echoes again, as if that’s the part I’m not comprehending. When in fact, it’s the part of this that I like the best now. “Be serious, Benny. On what planet…”

“This planet.” I tap my finger on the copy of the certificate. “The planet of this document. I take my contracts very seriously.”

She snorts. “Come on, Benny!”

I sit back in the deeply cushioned bench. Now who’s amused? I am. “Ask me, Francine,” I say to her. “Look at me and you ask me, whose wife am I?”

She regards me with a look of shock.

I wait.

“Dude,” she says. “Dude.” Maybe she’s getting the picture that she’s not dealing with that awkward, smitten nerd anymore. True, I had a lot of feelings about her complete radio silence that first year after we married.

And then I moved on.

I forgot about it.

I put her and the whole thing behind me.

“Go on. Ask,” I say. “Whose wife am I, Benny?”

“Did you get a concussion or something?”

I shift my posture, sitting to one side, play-acting her asking me. “Whose wife am I, Benny?”

Her lips part. She can’t believe what she’s seeing.

I shift to the other side, as if to answer myself, but here I gaze right at her. “Mine,” I say.

She raises her eyebrows, eyes wide under dark lashes.

It’s rare that anything but ballet captures Francine’s full attention, but I have it now—I should know; the study I made of Francine is more exhaustive than the study I made of robotics, and I made my fortune in robotics.

I tilt my head, give her an ice-cold smile, a negotiating technique hammered out over the years. “Mine,” I say again. “That’s whose.”

“Dude, the 1800s called,” she says. “They want their sad freaking mentality back!”

I pick up an imaginary phone. “Hello?” I say. “Why, yes, this is Benjamin Stearnes. What’s that you want back, 1800s?” I shift my gaze to her. “No, I’m sorry. You can’t have it back.” I shrug. “Why? Eh. I suppose keeping it suits me. Yes, thank you. Good day to you, too, sir.” I hang up the pretend phone.

She’s gaping at me. “You’re not even funny right now.”

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