Page 34 of The Grumpy Billionaire

There was one day when he called her a “hopeless waste of space.” I remember this wild, burning sensation in my chest, and my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “Don’t talk about her like that,” I said to him. “You’re her brother, for fuck’s sake! How can you not see how bright and capable and persuasive she is? If anything, her friends are copying her.”

Charlie was usually a good judge of character—it baffled me, how wrong he was about her.

He did stop after that. I was glad that he’d apparently reconsidered his ignorant opinion. It really was unfair. She wasn’t book-smart like Charlie and their parents, but she was optimistic and interested in everything, and she had an artistic flair that nobody seemed to appreciate. She loved taking pictures, and she was incredibly observant, constantly pointing out the way trees and houses out the window changed in the shifting light, or marveling at the different shades of green in the yard.

She was also wild and reckless at times—an adventurous spirit who hated being told what to do. She’d run into trouble now and then, but she always seemed to find her way out of it.

Almost always.

I finish dinner and clean up, then I fix a cup of decaf coffee, and set it on the upper right-hand corner of the placemat. A bowl of ginger candies is on the upper left-hand corner, and Stella’s card is there in front of me.

I eat a candy and sip the coffee. Then I pick up the card, loosening the envelope by its flap, trying to get it up without ripping it. It annoys me when people rip presents open or rip envelopes open. It annoys me even more when they open them from the small side with a paper knife.

Letters in general annoy me. All paper can be electronic.

The card is thick, printed with an old-fashioned letterpress. There’s a bear image front and center above the words “I can bear-ly thank you enough.”

I read the inside.

I’m sooooooo grateful you got me this job, Hugo. It means everything that you’re in my corner. Hundreds of gummy worms set nose to tail, circling the earth over and over, could not encompass the hugeness of my gratitude. I want you to know that I won’t let you down.

Warmly,

S

This followed by several hand-drawn cat faces.

Something churns in my gut.

I set it aside and finish my coffee.

I think there’s something weird going on, because why would they hire me and then change their minds? My new friends thought it was suspicious, too.

The German philosopher Immanuel Kant argued that it’s never wrong to tell the truth, that telling it’s a moral duty, regardless of the consequences. And I had a good reason to tell the truth in that letter of recommendation.

A very, very fucking good reason—and good intentions, too.

But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say.

I go back to the card. It comes to me that the grinning cat face she drew is supposed to be an emoji. Leave it to Stella todrawan emoji, defeating the purpose of the thing on several levels.

A quick check of my phone tells me that it’s the smiling cat emoji; it means extreme happiness.

I doubt she put real thought into the choice of emoji. It was probably just topmost on her emoji panel or something. Because it was clear she’s not happy at that job, though it seems like she’s making the best of it.

Pretending not to know me for whatever Stella reason. Waltzing into my office with the ASAP delivery so that she can hand-deliver the card. The pouf of her ponytail. The way she took my chair, legs crossed. Periwinkle and brown.

And now it’s official: she’s taking up entirely too much of my attention. What’s done is done, and no amount of thinking and rationalizing will change that. Eventually, she’ll get another job; in the meantime, I’ll avoid passing by the admin pool as much as possible. And reiterate that I am not to be bothered.

I don’t know why she hasn’t found a different job. She seemed to think I needed to be convinced of her value in the career marketplace, but I know about her success. Her family seems to see her awards and promotions as participation trophies, but it’s obvious that’s not the case.

And with that, I really am done thinking about her. I said I was done, and I need to be done.

Stella’s off-limits. That is the rule. She’s Charlie’s little sister. Warren and Joyce Woodward considered me to be a second son, which makes Stella like my sister.

What’s more, thanks to the Jones household, I got a front row seat for what life looks like when people break their codes, their vows, their promises—to themselves and others.

“We’re going to stop drinking this month, Hugo!” “No more big parties!” “Wednesdays will be grocery trip days—just say what you need, Hugo!” “Only one drink a night!” “This is the last time somebody sleeps in the bathtub, Hugo, but for now, just ignore him!” “We’re turning over a new leaf!” “Okay, we really, really mean it this time—new leaf.”

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