“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want what someone else says to decide whether I’m happy or not.”
Wow. She must have what they call a high emotional IQ. Too bad that won’t get her anywhere in life. “Todeterminewhether you’re happy or not,” I say, correcting her.
“Whatever. I’d just rather have all the information I need to make an informed decision about something. When people start sugarcoating things, it just gets complicated.”
“So why do you think it’s a problem when I don’t try not to be rude to people?” I ask.
“I didn’t say I thought it was a problem.”
I will definitely miss talking to this girl. Maybe I should give her my number when I leave for college. Maybe Monty would be cool with that.
“I also didn’t say I particularly like people who don’t sugarcoat things.” She smiles smugly. “I’m an enigma.”
Yes. She is. I like that about her too.
But she’s Monty’s little sister.
And I think it’s important to go to college with my testicles intact.
CHAPTER 12
OLIVIA
NOW
Iwake up in a bed of understated, comfortable luxury. The only noise outside the window, which is covered with sheer white curtain panels that let in gorgeous light, is birds singing. No honking, no people on the street, no street noise whatsoever.
This guest room is minimalist in its design. It is tasteful, elegant, and relaxing. So relaxing that I almost forgot how angry and frustrated I was before falling asleep last night. The door is still shut. The rubber snakes are still scattered around on the floor. My vibrator is still resting on top of the duvet. My ego is still a little bruised. John did tell me he’d be too busy to fuck me twenty-four-seven, and it’s not like I rationally believe that heshouldfuck me twenty-four-seven.
But that better have been an important phone call if he’d rather answer it than bone me. Perhaps he’s not an underboob man. Which is fine. I have several more tricks up my sleeve. And I suppose if this were September instead of July, I would barely have time for him or anyone else who wanted to fuck me.
But still.
If we’re going to pretend to be in a relationship and we’re attracted to each other, then whyshouldn’twe have some fun while we’re together?
I have never seen this guy have fun. Well, I mean… He used to have a lot of fun doing math. And watching sci-fi or fantasy movies. And playingStarCraft. He tracked his win rate on a spreadsheet. But I’ve never seen him have fun doing the kind of things I have fun doing. I’ve never seen him let loose or lose his shit.
Even when I hid the rubber snakes in his sleeping bag when we were kids, I heard him make a few loud “Uhhh! Uhhh!” exclamations, and then Nathan said he jumped out of the sleeping bag, rolled it up, and tossed it into the closet so the snakes couldn’t get out. Nathan said he acted like a fast-thinking badass.
By the time I ran into the basement, cackle-laughing, Johnny was just standing there with his arms crossed, telling me he could have had a heart attack. It was very disappointing.
I could get his attention, but I could never quite get a rise out of him. It’s like he can always think his way out of having an emotion before it takes over.
I think I’d be doing him a favor if I can get him to loosen up.
Maybe he isn’t as experienced as he’d like me to believe. Maybe he needs me to help him lose his inhibitionsandteach him how to drive a woman wild in bed. I use my body for a living, and he’s been stuck inside his head all his life. He must be so intimidated by me, the poor guy. I wouldn’t mind teaching him a few things.
And also, I’d just like to bring that billionaire to his knees. Is that so wrong?
John hasn’t sent me a text or left a voicemail to let me know what to expect this morning or to apologize for walking out onme last night. The itinerary his assistant sent me doesn’t start until we travel.
I brush my teeth and record my morning skincare routine for a YouTube video I’ll edit later and then change into leggings and an oversized T-shirt before heading to the kitchen. I don’t even know if John is home right now, but he might have employees here working. That seems like a billionaire thing.
I find a cherubic middle-aged Hispanic lady in the kitchen making coffee. I can tell from the scent that it’s the Ritual coffee I served Johnny at the restaurant. This must be his housekeeper.
“Good morning,” I say.
