Page 21 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

Not me!

I’m wearing one of my favorite spring coats, a bright red number with black embroidery along the collar and around the buttons. It has a black belt, and I love it to death. And it perfectly covers the Sound of Music/St. Pauli Girl dress.

I tighten the belt, feeling excited and just a tiny bit nervous as Benny’s driver comes around to the back and pulls open the door.

Benny’s in there. The half of him that’s facing me is so deeply shrouded in shadows, I can barely see his expression. His profile and the outer edges of his white collar are outlined in a pale glow by the streetlights behind him, along with a sprinkling of dirty-blonde whiskers on his cheeks.

I slide in next to him and the door closes behind me, shutting us up together, me and the shadow side of Benny. Though, he’s all shadow side, apparently. A nerd in wolf’s clothing. But more—the wolf has totally taken over the antisocial nerd, chewed it to pieces.

Still, I can’t quite hide my grin. Benny in a limo. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

“What’s so funny?” he demands as it lurches out into the honking cacophony of traffic.

“A limo is funny,” I say.

He stares down at his phone with aharumph.

“I seem to recall a certain somebody calling it a low-self-esteem mobile,” I tease.

“I seem to recall a certain somebody who enjoyed the billionaire trappings at one point,” he says.

“Well, like you say, people change,” I tell him. “I’m just not that into billionaires these days.”

“You’re not?” he asks.

“They just don’t work for me,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, just scrolls darkly.

“And here you are, riding in the hated limo. How’d that happen?”

“It happened because only imbeciles continue to operate on information that’s ten years old. As it turns out, when you’re a business owner like I am, a limo is a tool that aids in client management, client acquisition, and a host of other functions.”

I’m still smiling. There’s no way I’m letting him slip out of this. “Do you ever wonder if people watching you drive by are just scowling at you?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s how I measure this limo’s mileage. Scowls per gallon,” he says coolly, barely bothering to look up. “This one gets five scowls per gallon. I’m hoping to upgrade to seven in the near future.”

I suck in a breath. He didn’t use to be like this! He was sullen and antisocial, yes but he’s added a snarly and acerbic dimension to his personality.

I study him discreetly, wondering about that night together. What possessed us to get married? Aside from my shameful behavior, I remember vague flashes of scenes. Us talking excitedly in some dark cavern of a bar. Feeling excited out on the strip.

I want to ask him, but I’m a little afraid to.

Did I confess something embarrassing to him? Like my fascination with him and his gangly hands and gorgeous lips? Or other inappropriate things I would sometimes think about him after he made it clear he was off-limits?

“What?” he grumbles, feeling my attention upon him.

“So…is this the first time you’ve met these people?” I ask, like that’s my big concern.

He grunts something that is clearly a yes in the direction of his phone.

I swallow. Maybe I’m just part of the furniture to Wolf Benny. Maybe I’m just another tool in client management—limo, contract, annual holiday gift, wife.

I sit back and fold my arms, feeling even happier about my dress.

If the back of his limo is like a small living room, we’re sitting together on the main couch. There’s a pull-down tray between us that currently holds a crystal tumbler of what is probably horrendously expensive scotch or whiskey.

Across from us is a smaller seating area, and right in the middle of the two seating areas is a console that is like a small coffee table, except it has a screen set into it.

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