Page 95 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“You?”

“You know it’s true. My parents moved us to cheaper places. They took whatever shit jobs they could get, and the drinking went through the roof. At some point, I got the idea that if I gave the perfect gifts like they used to give to me, they’d remember how happy we were. As if it was a problem of memory. As if they’d forgotten how to be a family. As if they’d be disconcerted by the contrast and realize how bad things had gotten and be inspired to go back to normal. Not my best feat of logic.”

My heart twists as I picture scowly little Hugo, trying to puzzle out how to put his family back together the way he might have puzzled out a geometry problem.

“It was the best you could do at the time.”

He snorts. “Debatable. I took it on as a mystery that was assigned to me to solve, like Sherlock Holmes. I was a detective gathering gift clues. I worked at it, and it became a muscle. Like a weightlifter targeting a muscle.”

“I was in awe of it, you know.”

“You were?”

“God, you’d give my family a gift every year, and it would always be the best thing ever. Meanwhile, I’d be like, here’s a lopsided sculpture made of coiled clay. You’re welcome.”

“They loved your gifts.”

“Did you see any coiled-clay vases on display when you were last over there eating pineapple?” I ask.

He glances in the direction of Brenda’s office. “Maybe I could pull her in on something. She mentioned a few areas of interest on her résumé.”

“It doesn’t have to be a perfect alignment,” I say. “She wants to be around you and to soak in your way of seeing things.”

“If you’re going to do something, you should do it perfectly.”

“I think the saying goes, if you’re gonna do something, you should do it right.’”

“Yes, I know that’s how it goes,” he says with the maximum possible disdain.

“Yeah, alright, Mr. Perfect. I will admit that you do have a few things down perfectly. A few key things.”

If he gets the joke, he doesn’t show it; he’s turned very serious, in fact. “I’m glad to know that about Brenda. I should’ve seen it. Thank you.”

My heart swells. “Of course.” It’s so easy to think that Hugo doesn’t care about people, that he doesn’t give a shit about being better, like he’s this icy wizard on the mountain. Even Charlie seemed to see him like that most of the time.

I feel really grateful that he’s let me in. “Come here.”

“I believe I am here.”

I loop a finger into the button placket on his shirt and pull him close to me. “More here.”

I kiss him. Things feel right with him. We can get back on shallow ground later.

A woman’s voice sounds from the hallway. Footsteps coming our way.

Hugo swears softly, and for a split second, I wonder whether it’s the ice-blonde Amazonian, but then I hear the snarled, muttered words of what could only be Wulfric.

The door bursts open.

“What the hell is this chia project?” A large man stalks in—Wulfric Pierce, I’m guessing—trailed by a woman with short black hair.

This would be Lola.

The men set to arguing, and Lola gives me a secret smile, a smile so fleeting that I think I might have imagined it. The next second, she’s scratching notes onto an iPad.

She wears a smart black suit and big purple earrings, but what’s most remarkable about her is the utterly serene expression on her face—shocking, considering that her boss is stalking around in front of the boards now, grumbling through gritted teeth like he can barely contain himself.

I’d expected Wulfric to look like a goblin, but this guy’s no goblin--he’s more like a Viking with white-blond hair and ice-blue eyes and powerful Nordic cheekbones set in a rugged-looking face, like he spent long hours in a deranged Russian boxing gym on his way to America.

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