Page 113 of The Grumpy Billionaire

ChapterForty-Seven

Stella

I spoona bunch of turmeric into the bubbling pot. It’s a Sunday afternoon and we’ve decided to make a curry dish. We’re acting more like a couple every day. This weekend we’re actually going to some industry event together.

“What did you just do?” Hugo asks.

“It calls for two tablespoons of turmeric,” I say.

“The tablespoon measure is over here.”

“Normal spoons are like a tablespoon if you get it heaping.”

“You have to measure things properly,” he says.

“Measurements are just estimations.”

“Not at all. Cooking is chemistry. This is a chemical formula.”

“It’s gonna be amazing,” I say.

“Don’t you want to do it correctly?”

“Correct is in the eye of the beholder.”

Hugo gives me a growly kiss and sets me up on the counter. “I’m giving you a time-out.” He measures a teaspoon of cumin exactly, leveling off the top so that it’s a perfect teaspoon.

“I’m gonna sneak some extra in when you’re not looking,” I tease.

He comes to me. “I’m gonna tie you up so you can’t.”

“Are you gonna tie me up and force me to watch you make soup with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker? Because I suppose I would be down for that.”

He passes the bowl of potatoes. “Dice.”

“Do they have to be the size of an actual dice?”

“Die, you mean? Yes.”

“Fuzzy dice?” We fight over the potato. Fuzzy dice.

At some point the stovetop is turned off and we’re over on the couch for some very amazing pussy licking that blows off the top of my skull, and later we’re in the shower where I try to bring him down another percent with a mind-melting blow job.

We towel off and dress in his clothes—both in matching button-down shirts and sweats—and then make the very not-difficult decision to put the curry parts in a Tupperware to make tomorrow and order to-go food.

A few minutes later, there’s pounding on the door.

“That was fast,” Hugo says.

“That’s no Vietnamese food,” I say, pulse racing. “I’d recognize that pounding anywhere.”

Hugo scowls. “Charlie.”

“How he got past the doorman…”

“He’s on my list.” Hugo heaves himself up and strolls across the place. With a quick glance of solidarity at me, he flings open the door.

“What the hell?” Charlie’s holding up his phone. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

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