Page 68 of The Grumpy Billionaire

Or is it more than the letter? And if so, what? And why won’t she tell me?

Well, I’m a quant. I work out the most complex problems on the planet. I can figure out why she’s so against the two of us going on a date.

“My gift is at Carruthers?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Carruthers is a cavernous old warehouse deep in Brooklyn full of vintage furnishings and housewares and knickknacks.

“This is a place you come to?”

“Sometimes.”

The owner, Felix, nods at me from behind the jewelry counter as we pass. I nod back. He’s busy with a customer—probably for the best. Felix loves to talk.

“You know the clerk?”

“He’s the owner. This way.” We head deep into the maze of aisles, circling a midcentury housewares display and heading down an aisle full of art deco figurines that have very little utility in everyday life.

She stops here and there and examines whatever catches her eye. Sometimes she gives me a sly look as if to say,Is this my gift?I give her a stern look back and shake my head. There are specific looks of mine that she seems to like, and I’m not above abusing them.

“Are you going to give me a hint as to the general area where it is?” she asks.

“Nope.”

She comes to me, all fake anger. “You’reincorrigible.”

Heat blooms between us. Her eyes drop to my lips, and I think she’s going to kiss me, but then she seems to think better of it. She spins around and continues, stopping only to examine a tiny bowl—so tiny as to be completely useless. “Look at the work on this.”

“I know. People used to put a ridiculous amount of effort into making useless things elaborate.”

“It’s called beauty, Hugo. Some people like beauty.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

She turns and walks backwards. “Why do you come here?”

“Not everything here is ridiculous.”

“Huh.”

We head around a corner into a tall thicket of shelves. She touches random bright things, sometimes picking them up and turning them—examining the way the light changes, no doubt. She picks up a bird statuette that’s also a vase. “Is it this?”

I take it from her fingertips and set it back, never letting my gaze stray from her eyes. “Nope.”

Just four hours ago we were in that elevator, and I want her again. I wanted her again the second I wasn’t touching her anymore. This irresistible need that I have for her—I don’t know what to do with it.

She pauses, studying my eyes. She seems to rouse herself and continues on. She picks up a blue glass vase and turns to me. “This?”

I lift it from her fingers and set it aside. “Do better.”

She comes near, lips a hair’s breadth from mine. “Is my gift of legend within visual range?”

“No hints.”

“So it’s not, then?”

I cradle her cheeks and kiss her, right there between the dusty rows of shelving that seem to go for miles. “No.”

---