Page 62 of The Grumpy Billionaire

Transcendent.

As in, sex with him was twenty thousand on a scale of one to ten. More than that. He was out of control—fuck yes—and it was the best thing ever.

It feels dangerous, how much I loved being with him.

Also, the quick orgasm? My whole identity as a person who doesn’t come from screwing alone without a lot of machinations had to be reversed by Mr. Roboto? The one man I most need to stay away from?

Also wrong.

I lured him in and I’m paying the price.

He’s right—I do need more self-control.

I also need for a hot poker to be shoved into the memory section of my brain so that I can forget how awesome sex with him was, so that I can go back to sex with normal guys and think it’s good.

And then he drops everything—us, the hotness, our connection—and starts scribbling math shit. I’d be offended if I wasn’t so grateful that he did that, because it was the best possible reminder of who he is—a perfectionist who only cares about his perfect pursuit of perfect greatness.

* * *

That eveningI emerge onto the bustling sidewalk overseeing my usual good-versus-evil dinner plan thought-war in my head when Hugo peels off the wall and falls into step next to me.

“Want a ride?” he asks.

“No thanks.” Wall Street Station’s two blocks up.

“You sure? The car’s just a text away. I’m calling it either way.”

“Not interested,” I say.

“You want to grab dinner later tonight?”

I slow my steps and steal a glance at him. “Grab dinner? As in, go on a date?”

“Let’s talk about what’s happening here. I have things I need to tell you, and we need to eat. Name the time. I’ll pick you up. Why not?”

“Why not? Because I’m not dating you.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“Dinner is a date, and that is not happening,” I inform him as we head up William Street, gray stone buildings like cliff faces on either side of us. “Last I checked, you screwed up my dream job. And then we banged in the elevator, which immediately inspired you to start scrawling math on a piece of paper. And you think I’m reckless and unruly and I refuse to follow orders, statements that you seem a hundred percent on.”

“Look, I’m going to explain about the letter once I clear something on my end, but Stella, those things I said? Yes, I stand behind them.”

“Oh wow, thanks!”

“Youarereckless,” he says. “You have original ideas and the willingness to try big things, even if failure is all but guaranteed. It’s a superpower in business, and I think you know that. You’re unruly, always ready to go left when everybody else says to go right if that’s what it takes. You will not be managed. You eat cheese balls with a damn spoon.”

The way he says all this, it’s like he suddenly thinks these are good things.

We stop at a light. Up ahead, the windows of a skyscraper reflect the last gasps of the setting sun, a warm grid of light set into cold stone.

“And I recall incorrigible…” I say.

“Yes. For example, remember when you played sax in band, and you would honk out random notes?”

I try not to smile. It shouldn’t still be funny. “Well…my friend and I would dare each other.”

“But you were the only one who did it. And it was fucking hilarious.”

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