Page 104 of The Grumpy Billionaire

He passes it over, but is in no way deterred from his line of questioning. “Those two smells aren’t nice together at all. It’s like putting toothpaste on an olive. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You mean, scents sense?”

His gaze sharpens. “In fact, every time we feel close, you smell my neck or you ask me to put on more cologne. What’s up with that?”

“Why does something have to be up with that?”

“I’m a quant. Patterns are my business.”

He’s watching me, putting it all together because he’s Hugo fucking Jones.

In my second feat of solving an obnoxiously obvious mystery, I see now that this cologne thing was a terrible idea. My heart is just pounding.

“It’s something about my cologne. You smell it, and afterwards, you’re more…” He furrows his brow, searching for the word. “Reserved.”

I blink, slowly relegating the cologne from theterriblecategory totop five worst ideas ever, and there are some star-studded bad ideas in that category.

“Okay. Umm…this is going to sound…not good—”

He stands. “It reminds you of somebody,” he says, appalled. “It’s his.”

My heart skips a beat. “Okay…uh.”

“No, no, no. Wearing another man’s cologne? Smelling like that jackass? No.” He beelines across the place. “Fuck no.”

“Hugo!” I follow him into the bathroom.

He turns on the shower. “I won’t smell like your ex, Stella. I’m not him.”

“I’m sorry, Hugo. It was messed up.” My pulse pounds in my ears. What have I done? I love this man.

I love him. I always have.

He’s about to peel off the clothes but then he seems to realize that they smell like cologne as much as he does, and he literally steps into the shower, fully clothed.

“Hugo! Your sweater.”

“What do I care about a sweater?” He’s fighting off his sweater under the pounding water, struggling with the sopping wet sleeves. I’ve never seen him irrational or impulsive like this. Hugo is orderly. Logical under fire.

I go in with him, Lululemon loungewear and all, and help him off with it. “Hugo.”

“I’m not him.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“Wearing another man’s cologne. To hell with that.”

I toss the wet sweater onto the shower bench. “I’m sorry.”

He paws at his shirt buttons, popping one.

“Hugo.” I grab his hands, stilling them.

“Why would you want that?”

“I thought it would help me remember how devastated I was. The damage of somebody deciding that your flaws are just too much for them—you don’t know what that feels like.”

“I’m not him, Stella.” He looks me clear in the eyes, water streaming down the sides of his head. “This is me.”

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