Page 23 of The Grumpy Billionaire

It’s bad that I want to kiss him.

And kind of distressing that I still feel this infatuation.

I remind myself that I have sworn off all Hugo-style men and that would include the original Hugo, but I can’t help it. I plaster on a serious expression. “So that’s a no on the Chia Pets?”

He growls.

My heart flutters.

I have to get out of here.

“There was always one on the dining room hutch,” he says. “Visible from each and every spot in the room, no matter where you sat. Your mother—a mathematician. Yet these Chia Pets she’d be growing everywhere—”

“Oh my god,” I say. “It was you! You’re the one who’d move them around and put things in front of them!”

Hugo’s eyes flash with humor. It’s so subtle, most people might not see it, but I do. I may have gotten shit grades in high school math, but I earned straight A’s on the subject of Hugo Jones’s nearly imperceptible expressions.

I point. “You!”

His eyes narrow. “Sprouts. Growing on a cheap sculpture.”

“You know I was blamed for that, right? Thanks a lot, Hugo!”

His lip quirks. “I wasn’t hiding them, more like shifting them so they weren’t visible from my seat at the dinner table.”

“Her pride and joy,” I tease.

“I’m sorry, a sculpture. The sprouts—”

I’m laughing. “All this time!”

He straightens here like he suddenly remembered we’re not supposed to have fun. “Look, I have to get back to work.”

“What are all thoseX’s?” I point to the whiteboard nearest to the window.

“Nothing,” he says.

I stroll over. “What are you tracking?”

ChapterTwelve

Hugo

The thingwith Stella is that sometimes answering her questions leads to more questions. Other times, answering her questions gets her to let go of whatever she’s decided to grab on to. You never know which way will be best in a given circumstance, but I go with the latter.

“If you must know, I’m tracking focus sessions,” I say.

Stella examines the board, trying to make sense of it.

The light brown streaks on the lower part of her hair weren’t there in the photo Christmas card her parents sent last year, but her hair is otherwise the same, a shiny waterfall of waves. Her periwinkle skirt matches her periwinkle jacket—she’s more dressed up than I’ve ever seen her—for the job, I imagine. The color complements the warm tones in her skin and hair. Everything about her is deeply pleasing to the eye, a phenomenon that would probably be best explained by a color wheel.

“LottaX’s for today,” she finally says.

Yes, there are moreX’s than usual, and the reason for theX’s is standing right there. “Those are unsuccessful focus sessions,” I say.

“What? You get a punishing and angrily scrawled blackXwhen you don’t do the session right?”

“What’s measured is managed.” I go up and stand beside her. “My goal is to improve the length and quality of my focus sessions by one percent every day, which is 39.78 percent per year.”

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