Page 122 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“I would hate that,” she says with an intensity that surprises me. “I would never say that.”

Is she upset that I corrected her?

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just…sometimes it’s the spirit of the thing that’s valuable. Maybe you want to preserve the heart of it, you know?” She opens her little clutch and extracts lip balm. “Just never mind.”

“No, I want to know. What’s going on?”

She smooths the balm over her lips a few times, then pauses, then smooths on some more. Finally she puts it back. “I don’t want to be having a fight about leap seconds.”

“How about this—your way of saying it is more evocative.”

She does a subdued version of the Muppet flail she used to do at dinner.

“Okay, wait,” I say. “That means you hate the conversation, or you don’t want to give an answer.”

“Right now it means we are pulling up to one of the grandest hotels in the city and you look like a dashing secret agent and we’re in love and I’m so off of leap seconds.”

“No more leap seconds,” I say, making a mental note to come back to this later. Stella’s upset, and I don’t want to just leave it.

* * *

“Holy crap,”she breathes as we reach the balcony overlooking the ballroom floor, which is dripping with chandeliers and ornate Victorian-era flourishes.

It’s the lighting she’s looking at—of that I have no doubt. I follow her gaze, wondering if it’s the warm glow coming off hundreds of flickering candles she’s marveling at. Or the way the light makes the chandelier crystals seem to flash. Or is it the interesting shadows around the fussy medallions and moldings that frame the bone-white walls?

I grab champagne off of the tray of a passing waiter and hand her a glass.

“Amazing,” she says.

“Now can we go to the hotel?” I joke.

“Hell no!”

I take her hand and we descend the marble stairs and join the throng. I guide us to a sparse corner as she tells me about her night with her new friends from the apartment. Waiters circulate with finger foods, and Stella insists on trying it all.

“Oh my god. Hey—” She points at the upper level. “Look! It’s Lola and Wulfric! See? In front of that marble statue thing! God, why would Wulfric make her go to something like this?”

I look up there. I recently informed him that Stella and I were dating. His answer was exactly what I knew it would be: he cares only about the data model.

I used to care only about the data model, too.

ChapterFifty-One

Stella

I takeHugo’s hand and pull him over and say hi to Wulfric and Lola. People try to catch Hugo’s eye—they really do seem to want to talk to him, but every time I look back, Hugo’s watching me. He’s oblivious to people as a rule, and this glam golden dress is not helping.

Score!

I hug Lola, who is wearing a very chic red gown. Wulfric is immediately grilling Hugo on the data model. Hugo mumbles something about testing methods. Even I can tell he’s being evasive. Wulfric will probably love whatever data model he comes up with, but Hugo sees the flaws, just like with that orb.

Hugo loves math and logic and data and perfect accuracy.I try to shake Charlie’s words out of my head. He was being an asshole, that’s all. He knows the soft spots. Of course Hugo cares about math and data and perfection—but caring isn’t the same as worshipping!

“I’m stealing Stella!” Lola drags me to the auction table. “Help me pick something in the mid-six-figure range for Wulfric to bid on.”

“What does Wulfric like?”

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