Page 25 of Billionaire Romantic
It’s almost embarrassing to admit to myself. My deeply-buried ideal life probably doesn’t sound modern or progressive or aspirational at all to a lot of people. But to me it’s the most aspirational life of all.
In my heart, what I really want to do is to have a whole bunch of babies and lavish my attention on them like my mother used to do to me, before our time together was cut so short.
Shelovedbeing a mother. She loved beingmymother.
It’s what I want too, more than anything. In this day and age it almost sounds archaic. I genuinely respect the hell out of all the hard work feminists have done throughout the decades and I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. Of course I’m grateful I’m a CEO—and not a terrible one, even though I’ve inherited a terrible situation. I’m incredibly lucky to be where I am and to have all the opportunities I’ve had, especially since I’m young. I know that and I appreciate it.
But finance and investing have never been my passions. I’m good at reading spreadsheets because it’s the only thing my father and I ever bonded over. It’s the only thing we ever had in common, except for the sorrow of losing the one person we both loved most of all.
If it was up to me, I’d happily never look at a goddamn spreadsheet again in my life.
If I could liveanylife I wanted to…I’d get married to some charming, twinkly-eyed man who makes me laugh. Maybe even an Irish one. I’d have babies and I’d create a beautiful, loving home.
I can’t think of a single thing I don’t covet about the idea of it. I’d cook organic baby food and create the most nurturing environment to raise them in. I’d love those babies so much it almost hurts to think about.
Maybe I’d start a small interior design business on the side. Maybe I could capitalize on my knack for making my living spaces comfortable and cozy, but in a stylish way. Everyone who visits my apartment comments on it. People have asked me if I hire out my time or if I’ve thought about starting an influencer account. I’ve always said no, because I was always too busy studying and working.
It’s strange. This is actually the first time I’ve ever admitted to myself that I want a family more than anything else. Not a high-powered finance career. Not a flailing company that was someone else’s obsession, but never mine.
Either way, my dream will have to wait. Bankruptcy isn’t exactly the ideal foundation for the stable, happy home I want to give my future babies—ifthey’re meant to be, at some point in an uncertain, distant future.
Besides, you need a man for babies.
Or a sperm donor.
Or a spur-of-the-moment trip to Ireland, to have a one-night stand with a sparkly-eyed charmer with tousled hair who smells like fresh air and green grass.
Jesus. I need to calm down. Stress is spinning my thoughts in weird directions. My fantasies could be straight out of an Irish Spring commercial.
Get a grip, girl.
But it does remind me that I haven’t been back to Ireland since before my mother died. This suddenly feels like a huge oversight. I was only three years old when we went to meet my grandparents, who have since passed away, and my mother’s many cousins. One thing I do remember is that my mother was so, so happy.
The Uber slows to a stop.
Shit. We’re here.
“Here you are, Miss Irish. I hope the date goes well.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Grace must have used my dating app alibi.
I can see the sign for Hopeless Romantic two doors down.
The Uber pulls away and I stand on the sidewalk for a few seconds, wondering if I actually want to go through with this. Honestly, despite the Irish Spring commercial, the last thing I want to do right now is to make small talk with some random guy from the internet. This whole thing feels like a mistake waiting to happen.
No doubt “Noah Steel” will turn out to be totally underwhelming compared to his picture. He’s probably some middle manager from New Jersey. Not that there’s anythingwrongwith middle managers from New Jersey, but the vision doesn’t really mesh with my Irish Spring fantasies.
Even if Noah Steel is half as attractive as his online picture, I’m not really in the mood for this. I’m stressed out and exhausted. I don’t know how Grace managed to talk me into it.
Part of me is very tempted to keep walking right past the restaurant and blow off this joke of a date. But Grace will murder me if I don’t at least meet him.
With a resigned sigh, I head toward the door.
Inside, the place is cute and nicely decorated. It’s busy.
The host greets me with a smile. “Welcome to Hopeless Romantic. Do you have a reservation?”
“Uh, yes. Under Lucky Irish.” I feel foolish even saying it.
