Page 3 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“Oh, Stella.”

“Have you forgotten our entire childhood? Hugo is not in the Stella Woodward fan club. Hugo is in the opposite of the Stella Woodward fan club. Hugo is a card-carrying member of the Stella-haters lodge. He has the furry hat and the golden staff and a secret book of Stella-hating rituals that he reads in the dead of night.”

“You’re being silly now.”

“It’s under control,” I repeat.

We get off the phone.

To say I’m the black sheep in my family is an understatement. Imagine a loud, extroverted cheerleader getting air-dropped into a family of serious math nerds—that’s my life in a nutshell.

My parents didn’t know what to do with a kid who hated to study, got average grades, and loved reality TV and Britney Spears and filming dance routines with her friends in the basement. My brother found me unbearable.

I’d act like I didn’t care, and I’d always bounce back, because I’m a person who bounces back from things. And I’d be happy again until my parents yelled at me to tone it down, because they liked our home to be silent as a tomb so they could do math things.

I really did try, but then I’d forget myself—especially when Hugo was over.

And Hugo was over a lot.

The second Hugo walked in the door,Star Trekbookbag slung over his shoulder, this exuberance would just come over me. Hugo was beautiful and completely antisocial, with walls impenetrable as Alcatraz, a prince on his throne, tall, dark and harshly handsome, regarding me with utter annoyance.

And god how I worshipped him.

Hugo Jones was more brilliant than Charlie and my parents put together and everybody knew it. An off-the-charts genius.

And his annoyance toward me? Also off the charts. Hugo found me so annoying he could barely even look at me.

As I grew older, my infatuation evolved from dorky childish excitement to imagining Hugo in sexy scenarios he’d definitely find problematic, if not downright disturbing on an acrobatic level.

He was a harsh beehive of seriousness that I couldn’t stop poking at, desperate for any reaction.

The last time I saw Hugo was ten years ago. I was twenty-two and we were both back in Percy Pines, Illinois, for Thanksgiving, and he was coming over to say hi and pick Charlie up for something.

God, how I primped that day.

I imagined Hugo’s eyes lighting up when he saw me… “Wow! Stella…”

Cue the loss for words due to my cute outfit and my mature demeanor. And then he’d hear about the cool job I’d landed as a video editor at a creative marketing firm in Madison, Wisconsin. My job in media was unimpressive to my family, but I felt sure Hugo would appreciate that I was making something of myself.

All that hope and hairspray for a two-minute hello where he could barely look at me.

Just like old times.

Sadly, all of the passionate longing for Hugo was still there on my side, raging like a bonfire. My obsession over Hugo twisted me up with joy and pain, as only unrequited feelings can.

I vowed to get over him—and get over him I did.

Now that I’m in my thirties, my infatuation with Hugo has been pulverized and therapized and negative-reinforced out of me.

Gone.

Dead as a doornail.

Still! I don’t want our first interaction in ten years being him having to rescue me like I’m the dipshit who crash-landed in New York with a purely delusional job, which is what it looks like.

In summation, do I want somebody to reach out to Hugo?

That would be an Empire-State-Building-sized no, thank you!

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