He opens his eyes wider. “Really? Max?”
Max nods.
JP doesn’t miss a beat. Apparently he doesn’t consider someone who house-sits competition. “Why aren’t you in Sonoma?” he asks, as if it just occurred to him. “I thought you were scouting out a date for some client.”
I shake my head. “A lot has happened…” I’m just about to explain everything to him when he says, “So sorry, sweetie, but can I call you back in a little bit? Jerome is buzzing me.” With an exasperated exhale, he says, “How many times do I have to take out these Sprüngli execs and tell them they’re pretty before they sign? They know they need Jacques-o-late.”
Jerome, Sprüngli execs—JP sounds incredibly important. “Of course.” I can tell him I lost my memory later. “I have a few fires to put out with GoldRush, too,” I say.
He laughs. “I bet you do.” In a softer voice he says, “I’m so glad you’re not mad, love.” Then he remembers Max is there. “Oh, and thanks for watching the house, Max. Hope it didn’t give you any trouble.” He blows me a kiss and then hangs up.
A gorgeous billionaire just told me he loves me. Who am I even?
Max and I sit in silence for a few seconds. It’s hard to fill the sacred space just vacated by JP, a god on Earth. What could anyone say that would do the moment justice? Instead I take a moment to meditate on his perfection, i.e., scroll through all of our couple’s shots on Instagram. We are beautiful and perfect. I’m not arm candy; I’m part of a power couple. I’m a legit businesswoman who is dating a legit businessman.
Max sighs. “He seems…nice.”
Talk about an understatement.
“Except where’s his respect for Sprüngli? That’s like a three-hundred-year-old chocolate company. Jacques-o-late—who does he think he is?” He dips a chip in the salsa. It makes his eyes water and he takes his horchata back and chugs.
“Hey!” I protest. “I stole that fair and square.”
“Not all of us can be JP,” he says with a hint of bitterness.
“Don’t be jealous of JP!”
“I’m not jealous,” he says, too emphatically. “Anyway, I was thinking…JP signed up for your dating service…”
“Looks like.”
“And you set him up with yourself?” His voice is filled with subtext.
I raise my shoulders in ayou caught megesture. “No one said I was stupid.”
“That’s for sure.”
He has a point, though. If any of the other women on theapp realized I took JP for myself, they’d probably smack me upside the head and leave me for dead. I repeat this out loud to Max. It seems like as good a theory as any. I create my list of suspects:
¦Art museum president’s wife
¦Angry chick who wanted JP for herself
¦Disgruntled art collector whom I randomly fought for the last spicy tuna roll
“You never know, but I’m guessing it’s not door number three,” he says.
“You have a PhD so you’re probably right.”
“That means it’s the president’s wife or an angry chick.”
It strikes me that I have quite a bit to do between solving my attempted murder and running a hot business. Speaking of which, I don’t even know how to run a business. Have I been missing calls and emails? Do I have employees?
“Max, do you think I have a secretary or something?”
“I don’t know. You’d think they would have called you.”
“Unless they were the one who conked me on the head. Or maybe they’re excited that I haven’t called them in to work? Maybe they’re hiding.” That seems like a natural thing to do. “I haven’t figured out who I am, and now I have to figure out a business and how to run it.”
