Page 62 of The Grumpy Billionaire
“Sometimes,” he said softly and resumed walking.
“Anyone special?” I continued prodding, angry at myself for asking, but dying to know the answer.
“I’m not being nosy,” I rushed to add. “That’s a question I’ll have to ask during the interview. Viewers will want to know.”
“As you may have noticed, I haven’t exactly ever cared about satisfying the curiosity of viewers.”
“You do now. The interview was your idea, after all. So, cough it up—is there someone important in your life?”
Good, Mara. Light tone of voice, pleasant expression. Nothing personal.
He waited a few seconds before responding, stopping in place and staring out at the glow of the fires on the river basin.
“You probably wouldn’t want to talk to the women I’ve dated—they’d tell you I was an aloof bastard.” He laughed softly, then paused before adding, “There is this one girl…”
Crap. I knew it. The supermodel Mara-upgrade.
“I never talk about her though. Some things…” Now he turned and looked at me. “… are going to remain off-limits during the interview, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t tell me what not to ask, you know. That’s not how journalism works. Power of the press and all.” I gave him a cheeky grin.
He answered it with a smirk. “I didn’t say you couldn’taskit. I’m just not going to answer it.”
We rounded the entire basin and ended up across the river from his condo. A line of people stood waiting for a chance to board one of the long black gondolas that floated slowly up and down the waterway.
When we were younger, Reid and I had always talked of renting one, but as teenagers, we’d never been able to afford the steep price of a ride.
He walked to the front of the line, whispered something to the ticket agent, and slipped a hand from his pocket into the other man’s partially concealed palm. Then he turned and gestured for me to join him.
As I walked over to meet him, a murmur went up from the small crowd, who seemed to be realizing en masse they’d just been cut in favor of a customer with deeper pockets.
“No, Reid,” I hissed. “We can’t.”
He grinned and ignored my objection, evidently accustomed to using his wealth to bend the rules.
Growing ever more aware of the holdup we were causing in the proceedings, I shook my head and stayed put. It wasn’t so much that I objected to his methods, though they were wrong. I didn’t want to get into that boat with him.
I literally didn’t think I’d be able to stand taking that long-dreamed-of romantic gondola trip with him when our relationship was no longer of the romantic sort.
As a girl, I used to imagine him proposing to me on such an occasion, in the way teenaged girls dream of that sort of thing. Drifting down the fire-lit river on a “business trip” just wasn’t the same. The thought of it was too sad.
Turning, I beckoned to the next people waiting in line, a couple of young lovers, about the same age as Reid and me. They approached us with wary expressions.
“This looks like a special occasion for you,” I said, and the young man nodded. “We’d like to treat you—your ticket is already taken care of. Enjoy.”
As their identical looks of shock transformed into smiles of delight, Reid turned to me with a head-shaking narrow-eyed grin.
“And you said I always getmyway.”
The couple walked ahead of us onto the small boarding dock. The woman climbed into the waiting gondola, and the guy turned back to us and mouthed, “thank you.”
He pulled a small box halfway out of his jacket pocket, blocked from his date’s view by his body, and showed it to me with an excited secret grin, then hid it once again before joining her in the boat.
The sad irony hooked into my heart and twisted like barbed wire snagging a piece of clothing.
I turned away from the too-romantic picture, looping my arm through Reid’s to pull him with me.
“Look at that—you really are a matchmaker—you just didn’t know it,” I teased.
