“Barf.”
“Uh huh, yet you know about the cover articleandmy performance in the great Grace race. Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Don’t quote the Bard and be British at the same time. It’s off-putting.”
He sits up straighter and takes on some strange American accent, “My bad, lemme turn my British off and talk regular.”
I laugh. Hard. “What the hell accent was that?”
He over annunciates hisrsounds even more while jutting his chin out, “I’m American, baby! Trucks! Beer! Touchdowns! Nascarrrr!”
“What, now you’re a pirate?” He laughs and I laugh hardagainand we’re both so loud everyone in this fancy bar is probably bothered. Weirdly, I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.
“Damn, see? Like this,” he gestures between us. “I can’t laugh with any of them like this. I’ve had more fun in the vault with you than I had on any of those dates.”
“Well, I’m only fun while supplies last.”
He frowns, “Pardon?”
I frown too, realizing we’ve been at it for hours. I never bar hop and I also don’t…chat. Definitely not for hours.
Weird.
“I have a very limited supply of energy for,” I gesture between us and around us, “this. In fact, I’m a few seconds away from turning into a pumpkin. I’m going to order an Uber.”
“Nonsense, I have a car just ‘round the corner.”
I think about protesting the billionaire doing billionaire things for me, then I remember I’m broke as a joke and deeply exhausted. “Thanks.”
“So, I’ll see you in the morning?” he says as I stand and he gives the bartender his thick, black credit card.
“Um, why would you see me in the morning?”
“Because you’re freed from your vinegar-and-egg-based responsibilities,” I start to protest but he keeps talking. “And I can’t very well just walk around now without you.”
“You absolutely can.”
“Can, but won’t.” He takes his card back, signs and motions for us to head to the entrance. “Walking from meeting to booth to podium with you by my side reminding me I’m pretty will be great for my fragile ego.”
I huff a laugh. “I will not be doing that.”
“Fine, rolling your eyes and yawning at me?”
“Much better for yourgiantego.”
“Brilliant. See you just shy of nine. At the coffee table.” I guess I make a face because he adds. “I know it’s shit. I’ll bring us real coffee. But that’s where we’ll meet.”
He opens the door to his stretch limo for me, just as he’s noticed people calling his name. I pause before I get into the car.
“If you really got me out of my job, could I maybe just, I don’t know, stay in my room and bingeReal Housewives of Amish Countryinstead?”
“As your boss, I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
I groan.
“See you,” he says, but he’s no longer looking at me. There’s a line—an actual line—of hot women waiting to take a selfie with him.
Ew.
