Page 91 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“To me it is.”

“How about to Wulfric?”

“Wulfric will be happy no matter how much I move the ball forward.” I toss the tomatoes into a bowl and start adding the spices.

“So…is this a perfectionist thing? Or a thing with your percentage-improvement whiteboard? You have to keep slogging onward and upward?”

“Somebody hates my self-improvement whiteboard.”

“I do hate it.”

“I’m not gonna do something derivative that’s one sad little click off of what I’ve already done, that’s all. Also, I know there’s a way to upend the old model—I can feel it in the air, but I can’t seem to get at it. Sometimes I wonder if the objective itself is the problem. I need to work it out before the presentation.”

“So anything less than upending the old paradigm will be failure? And failure’s not an option?”

“Not an option.” I go around and kiss her.

She seems worried. It’s worth worrying about, but it’s mine to worry about, not hers.

She arranges the tomato slices in a neat row while I entertain her with funny stories about Wulfric frightening people. Wulfric making bonkers market moves that turn out to be genius. Wulfric buying an entire restaurant and firing the chef because he refused to delete pineapple from the menu.

“What happens when Wulfric finds out you’re not allergic?”

“He can’t,” I say. “It’s gone on too long.”

“What would he do?”

“No idea,” I say. “Uncharted territory I’d prefer not to chart.” I take the pan out of the oven and check the temperature. Perfect. I slide it onto the burner.

“Wait, is that polenta?” she asks.

“Yeah. We’re making baked tomato and parmesan polenta.”

“Polenta is my favorite meal, and you know it. Hugo! It’s not a snack when it’s my favorite meal.”

“You make a lot of rules.” I toss the parm on top and set it back in the oven.

She fixes me with an accusatory gaze. Is she upset?

“You knew I’d take off the blindfold eventually, didn’t you? You had ingredients for this dish ready because you knew we’d cook together.”

“One of my favorite qualities about you is your inability to resist temptation.”

She narrows her eyes. “Pretty sure of ourselves, aren’t we?”

“Want a drink? I have a nice red for this.”

“And now he pulls out the wine,” she says. “If there are gummy worms for dessert, I fucking swear to god—”

“No such luck,” I say.

“I’ll have water,” she says stubbornly. “Because FYI, this isn’t a date. And you’re not playing fair.”

She’s right. I’m not playing fair. I want us to date. That’s my objective, and I plan to be merciless about it.

I grab us sparkling waters, wondering whether I can get the chef to make gummy worm ice cream. Chewy things in ice cream would be awful, but maybe she could freeze-dry them or just incorporate the tart flavor.

“Don’t pretend you would whip up this little dinner if it was just you,” she says, pouring her water into a glass. “I think you’re bamboozling me.”

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