Page 109 of The Billionaire's Shrubbery

“I’d like to. That’s for damn sure.”

“I have an idea that might help.”

“Sex?” I waggle my eyebrows.

“If sex hasn’t worked for the last …” Virginia scrunches her nose, the way she does when she’s thinking, “six hundred or so times, I wouldn’t put my money on it.”

I give her my best pout.

“Not saying I’m not willing to try,” she says, “but I was wondering if maybe now you’d be ready to get a puppy? Make a commitment to picking up dog poop for the next fifteen years …”

I roll onto my back and can’t help but laugh. “It’s as if you’ve learned nothing from your stint in the Power Broker Program or having listened to sixteen thousand episodes of The Will Power Hour. Your sales pitch sucks.”

We lay in silence and I realize that I do feel different. More hopeful. Lighter. I have a conversation in my head with Virginia. She asks, “What would you do if you knew you had another forty-four years to live?” And my answer is as clear as the flawless diamond that’s currently being set in a custom-made engagement ring.

“What kind of puppy?” I ask.

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