Page 47 of The Grumpy Billionaire

It’s not right.

I eat lunch at my desk, feeling angry.

But mostly I’m hurt.

Am I that shitty of a person that he felt compelled to warn future employers? It hurts. And the kiss, then. What was that? Some twisted power trip?

I should get tattoos all over my hands to remind me of the assholery and heartbreak of men like Hugo. Maybe the word “No!” or “It will not end well” in scrolly cursive. Or anHin a circle with a red slash through it. Or maybe some teardrops. But then I remember that teardrops are a sign you’ve killed somebody, and I’m having enough trouble on the job-getting front as it is.

Plop!A pack of gummy worms lands on my desk, nearly startling me out of my chair. Who threw gummy worms? I look around and see Jane, smiling at me from her cubicle.

“A little something something,” she says.

I smile. “Thank you!” I sit back down and tear open the pack. It is so sweet that she remembered!

Five minutes later, another pack lands on my desk, startling me yet again. “Livin’ the dream!” Hesh says.

Moments later, another pack lands on my desk. An admin comes by and tosses in another pack. “One word. Awestruck.” Another hits me in the head. It’s from Tinley.

People are showering me with gummy worm packs like I’m this folk hero.

“You guys!” I protest, but it feels good.

ChapterTwenty-One

Hugo

I can seethat she thinks I want her to come to my office for a replay of what happened yesterday. Even so, that’s no reason to address me so disrespectfully. She’s miles out of line, which is pretty much home turf for Stella Woodward.

Anyway, we’ll talk, and she’ll see that I’m not looking for another kiss.

The kiss was a lapse in judgement. A failure of control. Not like me at all.

She’ll see that.

It wasn’t like her, either. We’ve always kept a chaste difference. In the years I hung out at the Woodward household, Stella and I touched exactly two times.

The first time was that mistaken music room kiss. The second time I touched her was about a year after that when I rescued her in Williston.

It was autumn, and I was shuttling out to UChicago by then, but it was a Saturday night, so I was at home in my room—doing some coding, as I recall. Probably working overtime to shut out the chaos beyond a flimsy door in our prefab house. The trust fund money that my parents lived on had run out by then, and things had devolved, let’s just say.

And that’s when I got the Twitter DM.

We found your sister drunk as a skunk with a dead phone on a bench outside the McDonald’s on Fairview Road in Williston. We can only stay here for about ten more minutes. You need to come get her.

What kind of ridiculous scam is this? That was my first thought.

I was just about to block and report when…could it be?

Tell me her name.

Stella Woodward.

On my way.

I grabbed my keys and texted Charlie—you there?

I got nothing back. Not surprising—their parents were at some conference in Indiana, and I happened to know that Charlie and his girlfriend had plans that involved a box of condoms.

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