Page 80 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I don’t remember how I replied—probably stammered senselessly.

And he was about to say something more—I braced myself for whatever horrible punchline was about to come, but then Charlie walked up, and they both bounded up the stairs, and I never got to hear it.

The incident became a kind of litmus test for my teen self-esteem at any given moment; when I was feeling good about myself, I could almost believe that Hugo really meant what he’d said, because it had seemed to have been an unfiltered reaction, right?

When I was feeling down, I’d feel sure that he’d been just about to deliver the zinger of the century. Like, yeah, you look nice...in a sad little mall-rat way.

I thought about it a lot. So much thought for one random little moment in time that he probably forgot. So much wondering.

We’re a week into our Luxe rendezvous when I get the answer on it.

By this time in our illicit affair, we’ve taken to ordering room service and eating it quickly before parting—usually sandwiches—swiss roast beef for Hugo and a veggie delight with no onions for me. I’ve flexed on the issue of sharing a meal enough to do post-sex room service.

So I’m sitting up in bed next to Hugo, half under the covers, plate balanced on my lap, when I think to ask him.

“Do you remember this one time I was going out with my friends, and I was standing at the door waiting, and you came from somewhere and nearly ran me over. I think you thought I was gone. And you told me I looked nice. Out of the blue.”

“Waiting for your friends at the bottom of the stairs?”

“Why am I even asking you? Why would you remember a two-second encounter from fifteen years ago? And why am I asking? That’s not what we’re doing here.”

“Hey.” He sets his bag of chips on my side because I always steal them anyway, and he looks me in the eye and he says, “Do I remember that night you were standing there wearing that blue sequin tube top and blue flowered skirt? And you’re all smiles, frothing over with excitement? In those platform boots you always wore? And your hair shiny like a mirror? Are you asking me if I meant it when I said you looked nice?”

Shivers go over me. I’m stupidly excited for how much that sounds like a yes. “I shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t—”

“Damn right I meant it.” His voice is low like his orgasm bear growl. “Damn right.”

“Oh,” I whisper.

“And just for the record, that time when you kissed me, when you thought I was the other kid?”

“Yeah?” I say.

“It nearly broke me.”

“Me too,” I say.

I get out of there soon after, because we’re going way too close to the line, if not outright crossing it.

ChapterThirty-Five

Hugo

I meetStella at Hotel Luxe three or four times a week, sometimes at lunch; sometimes after work.

In spite of her dedication to us keeping each other at arm’s length, I’m learning a lot about her. Not just her as a sexual being, though as a sexual being she’s fucking magnificent—but also her likes and her dislikes, her sounds, her scents, her moods, the way she reacts to sirens out on the street—she’s still not used to Manhattan’s decibel level—and to workplace dramas; work being one of the topics of conversation she hasn’t deemed too personal.

Meanwhile, my data model is going disastrously. Those breakthroughs took me further than I was, but I’m starting to question the viability of the project itself. The goals. The premise.

Usually when work is going shitty, my mood is bad. But somehow, in spite of the fact that I’m now questioning the foundations of my project, which is a complete disaster, and daily failures in front of my whiteboards, the world seems…bright.

I’m just happy.

Do I want us to be together like a real couple? Does it torment me that she doesn’t want that? Yes, it definitely does. But in the las week or so, I’ve decided that what we’ve got is good. Humans are hardwired to be communal animals in addition to being sexual animals, after all. So of course this thing with Stella would be biologically satisfying to me as the higher-order mammal that I am, producing feelings of well-being that could be mistaken for happiness.

Or maybe this simply is what constitutes happiness.

But then we’re at Hotel Luxe one day after work, and Stella comes out of the bathroom, all wrapped up in a fluffy Hotel Luxe bathrobe, hair wet from showering, and she holds up a tiny bottle, eyes sparkling with delight.

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