Page 63 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I pull the belt around my coat, hoping he doesn’t notice my hands trembling. “So you want me to believe that these are traits you suddenly admire? This from the man who can’t bear to look at a Chia Pet, what with the sproutalicious hairdo?”

“I deeply admire those traits.”

“Well, thank you, but it was still a pretty massive dick move to write them in a letter to a prospective boss. Not the sign of affection you seem to think it was.”

“That’s the point here. I want you to let me explain about the letter and for us to work on a plan to make it right. I can’t explain right now, but over dinner I’ll be able to.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“Because I can’t.”

The mob is moving again, and we move along with it. Iwouldlike a ride, and to eat dinner together, and of course, I desperately want to know what his supposed explanation is. But I also know the danger of this.

“Tell me or don’t, Hugo, but dinner’s a date. I won’t date you. Anyway, I thought I was the most distracting woman alive. What happened to that?”

“You’re a breath of fresh air.”

I can’t help but think he’s saying that because of the math breakthrough. “I’m not your fresh air, and I’m not your muse, either.”

“Of course not,” Hugo says. “But before you officially say no, you need to understand that the restaurant I’ll take you to will knock your socks off. It’s as if it was made for you—you won’t believe there’s a restaurant like that.”

“What’s the restaurant?”

“You’ll see.”

“Stop making me curious and then I have to go out on a date with you to get my answers. It’s a no go. Also, don’t forget about Charlie! Hello! If we went out to dinner? Would he be mad or what? I’m going to recommend not telling him.”

“Charlie can deal with it.”

My pulse skitters. Hugo always cares about Charlie’s opinions.

An evil little voice inside me whispers,Why not have dinner? And he has something to tell you about the letter. Maybe hear him out? And then enjoy more out-of-control sexerations? And what the hell is this restaurant?

“So we won’t call it dinner,” he says. “How about if we call it payment for the pineapple image file?”

“You know I’d never show anyone that picture,” I say. “I’ll give it to you if you want.”

We stop across from the station entrance amidst a crush of people all gunning for the trains. It’s going to be a mob scene down there—no way will I get a seat.

Hugo settles a hand on my arm. “How about this—you give me the image and I’ll give you a gift in return. A gift that you’ll love. I already know what it is—I already picked it out.”

I turn to him. “A gift?”

“A gift that I picked out for you.”

This gets my attention, by which I mean kicks up my girlhood obsession with Hugo giving me a gift, Hugo taking the time to consider me so deeply that he’d intuit what I most want. Like Brenda’s galena. Like the fractal sculpture he got for my mom or Charlie’s tricorder.

My pulse races. The perfect gift. Hugo’s weird superpower—turned lovingly on me.

“You picked out a gift for me?” I ask.

“I did.”

“What is it?”

“Nice try, Sparky.” He smiles—it’s a big, genuine smile, complete with tiny crinkles at the sides of his eyes. It’s a good gift—that’s what the smile is telling me. I want it so badly, I can barely think.

“You’re free to give me a gift,” I say. “But I’m not dating you.”

---