Page 30 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“Got it,” I say. “Won’t happen again.”

“There are two people here you want to absolutely minimize your interaction with, and Mr. Jones is one of them.”

“Understood.” I shuffle some papers around my desk, still feeling shitty from my asinine visit to Hugo, hoping that this is the end of my conversation with Viola, but Viola doesn’t go away.

In fact, when I next look up, she’s staring at me weirdly. It’s here that I realize she’s waiting for me to ask who the other one is.

I really hate when people do that. It makes me feel like a trained seal.Arp! Whooooo’s the other one, Viola?

The side of me that doesn’t want to be a trained seal is warring with the side of me that knows I should be nice to Viola, because she’s my boss, and she obviously wants me to ask.

I suck it up and decide I’ll make it good for her. I lean in, all conspiratorial. “Who’s the other person?”

Viola straightens. “Let’s just say it’s somebody you’ll never meet.” This in a really ominous tone that suggestsshehas met this person, but I never shall.

Oh my god. I played her game, and she won’t tell me? I feel like such a chump.

Again she stares, waiting for me to ask who this very important and frightening person is.

“Thanks for the warning,” I say. “I’ll keep my head down. I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone.”

“Good thinking,” she says.

I wake up the computer. When I look back up, she’s still staring at me.

“The other person would be Wulfric Pierce,” she adds. “And I’m telling you right now, do not accost him. Like Hugo, any business you have with him can be handled through his assistant, Lola, or whoever follows once Lola’s head rolls.”

ChapterFourteen

Hugo

I spendten minutes looking at the whiteboard before I realize that I’m looking at the whiteboard, but not seeing the whiteboard. I run my hand through my hair.

My concentration is officially destroyed, just when I need it.

I sit down at my desk and grab a yellow legal pad and a nice, sharp pencil; sometimes that helps my focus. Instead I make a string of triangles.

A secret presentation has been scheduled. My deadline is screaming up. Half the quants on Wall Street are hot on my heels.

And I’m making triangles, but really thinking about Stella.

I go back to the board. I remind myself I trained all my life for this.

Growing up in Percy Pines, I would’ve traded anything to laugh like an idiot at something on TV or flop onto a couch in a naturalistic way. I studied other boys exhaustively. I made flow charts. I copied physical movements.

I spent a lot of time, in short, approximating human behavior.

You might think that all that time was wasted, but if you look at the job I have now, it’s all about approximating human behavior, though instead of smiling in the mirror or trying to re-create the conversational stylings of popular kids, I’m creating data models that predict and approximate the way market forces are impacted by people’s irrational, emotional, and frequently idiotic tendencies.

I couldn’t have asked for better training.

An alert from my phone jolts me to attention. It’s one word from Brenda:Wulfric.

The door bangs open.

“Jones,” Wulfric barks. That’s the extent of niceties. He’s at the board.

His assistant, Lola, gives me a quick smile, stylus poised at her iPad to take notes. She has short, dark hair and a quietly observant demeanor. I realize with some surprise that she’s lasted fifteen and a half months. Made of strong stuff.

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