Page 89 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“What? No!” I hit his shoulder. “That’smyfavorite three-dimensional shape! You have the torus.”

“I switched.”

“Who’s gonna tell the torus?” I ask.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll tell the torus. I’ll take care of all of it. I’ve got it.”

For a second, I think he’s talking about everything. He’s sayingtrust me.

I want to. I really do. Maybe I can. I want to not be scared.

“This is good,” he adds.

I smile and kiss him, and then I pull away and wander around.

Hugo’s bedroom is all blues. There’s one picture—a framed, black-and-white line drawing of a long-legged bird, bolder and more whimsical than true to life. Very unexpected. “Is that a stork?”

“An egret,” he says, coming up behind me.

“Do you like egrets?”

“I liked that one. An artist was selling them on a picnic blanket in Washington Square Park. It spoke to me.”

“Why?”

“I like that she drew it all in two bold lines, I suppose. It’s not realistic like a true-to-life sketch or something. If you put a photo of an egret next to it, it wouldn’t even be close, but there’s something about it that seems so much like an egret. Maybe more than a photo, even. It’s hard to explain.”

I turn to him. “Are you saying you like how egret-y it is?”

“Egret-y isn’t a word.”

“Its ineffable egret-y-ness sold you?”

“Not a word.”

I turn back to it, just eating it up. Here is art that Hugo chose for himself. He loved something essential in it, as though he sensed the soul of it. I suppose in his own way, Hugo is a seeker, peering through all of his numbers to get to some deep truth, though he’d be the last to admit it.

“I love that that’s why you picked it,” I say. “I love knowing it.”

He kisses the top of my head. My heart is bongo-ing.

Clad in one of his shirts, I plod out to his living room where bright white walls with pristine crown molding soar to the ceiling, framing amazing views of the park. This is a pre-war building, but the openness of this space gives it a fresh feel. The wood floor is so dark it’s nearly black, and there are square pillars where they probably took out the walls.

Simple, stylish pieces of furniture upholstered in complementary blues and yellows are clustered here and there. Did he consult a color wheel? That would be very him.

It’s in the corner that I spot the wooden shelf of orbs. They glint in the light. His little treasures. I go to look and make him tell me more about why they’re special to him. My heart does a little flip when I spot the card I got for him right there on the shelf with the orbs.

Again I wonder about the gift that he picked out for me. What could it be? It’s driving me a bit crazy. But I resist relenting on that point. I have to draw some lines. Even though I’m so deep into Hugo’s world, the warning bells are nothing but faint peeps, blending with the pigeon coos coming from the open window.

“So much for tawdry,” I say.

“Tawdry is overrated,” Hugo says.

I turn to him. “Don’t think because I’ve seen your place that we’re dating. It’s not what I want, and I need you to respect that.”

He nods. “I understand.”

Was that too easy? Or is he coming around?

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