Page 47 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

I pick up my phone and scroll, letting him off the hook, so to speak. As soon as the sale is over, Aaron and I will never lay eyes on each other again. Won’t be soon enough for me.

“Legally speaking, though—”

I raise my eyebrows. This better be legal.

Aaron pulls an envelope from his leatherbound folder and slaps it on my desk. “I tweaked the boilerplate she came to you with. Made it a bit more ironclad in the area of claims to assets accrued…you’ll see. The changes are marked in each case with purple stickers. Sign it, then have her sign it.”

I grab the envelope, stuff it into my case and shut the top.

“Aren’t you going to sign it?”

“I’ll sign when I’m good and ready,” I tell him.

“The sooner, the better.”

“I think somebody’s already shopping for oceanfront property, that’s what I think,” I say.

“Damn right,” Aaron says.

* * *

Francine’s stretchingon the living room floor when I get home the following evening; she’s got her legs splayed out with an exercise band hooked around her small toe. Spencer is sitting next to her looking on contentedly.

She hasn’t aged in the past ten years so much as grown into herself—that’s something I’ve noticed over the past week. Her cheekbones are more majestic, her eyes blaze with intelligence; her inner confidence has grown. She challenges me just as much as she ever did, though. She gives as good as she gets.

The feeling of her nearness sometimes radiates across my skin. Though you could say the same thing about static electricity.

“She would normally do this in the workout room,” she suddenly blurts. “But Billionaire Bluebeard has forbidden her explicitly—”

“We’re gonna take Spencer to the dog park,” I grumble. “You’ll grab something there if you haven’t eaten.”

“Is that an order? Part of my conscription?” she asks.

“It’s part of your conscription,” I say.

“And of course that overrides any stretching that I must do,” she says.

“You’re always stretching,” I say.

She frowns.

It’s true, though. Francine always stretched at random times, always working on the project of keeping limber—during blocking, during Beau Cirque meetings, waiting for her friends after our late-night cast dinners. She uses a band when she does toe exercises. They say dancers have strong legs, but it’s actually all about the feet.

With a harsh look directed my way, she rises from the floor in a fluid motion not once using her hands. I remember her declaring back in the Beau Cirque days that getting up from the floor without using your hands is one of the best exercises there is.

“And is there some dress code? Since you didn’t like my last outfit?”

“The dress code is no ridiculous outfits.” I leave to find Spencer’s collar. A few minutes later, Francine’s at the door in shorts and sneakers and a T-shirt that says “Hedgehogs: Why don’t they just share the hedge?” Because she pushes it. She always does.

We head out toward Twenty-Sixth past the galleries. She slows to look at the paintings and then catches up to us, a small rebellion.

“So are we playing happy married couple to any specific audience I should know about, or is it just the public at large?” she asks as we wait for the light. “Is there some point where I should be smiling and laughing and looking at you so adoringly?”

“You should be looking at me adoringly all the time,” I say.

“Are you being funny?”

“I feel like everybody should be looking at me adoringly, don’t you?” I say.

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