Page 38 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

Amelia sighed. “She’s kind of um, persnickety. Sorry. She’s not even my cat, she’s my aunt’s, but… I’m kind of getting the feeling Petunia’s too old to change her litter box any longer, so I think she might be staying on a more permanent basis.”

“Well, if anyone can win her over, it’s you.” I smiled. For a moment, a flicker of the Amelia I’d taken out to dinner came back, and she shared my smile. Then that darkness welled up in her eyes, and I realized that I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

“Are you sure that nothing’s wrong?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” She smiled, but there was a firmness behind it. If I kept asking, she was going to get really irritable.

So I let the matter drop and offered her my arm. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” she said, not taking my arm and walking down the hallway a few feet away.

I didn’t know what was going on with her, but I resolved to find out before the end of the night.

Chapter Twenty

Amelia

I had resolved to keep some distance between Jonathon and myself after learning he was the new owner and CEO of Acme Bread, and therefore my competition.

However, when he’d shown up at my door looking like he’d stepped off the page of a fashion magazine, I felt my resolve crumble a bit. I still didn’t let him kiss me on the lips. When I didn’t let him hold my hand on the way out of the building, there was a brief flash of hurt on his handsome face. Just a split second, but enough to let me know that he did have feelings.

So I started to feel bad. I started a debate inside my own head. Prudent Amy wanted to keep him at arm’s length. Heartstrings Amy wanted to be nice to him. Sexual Amy wanted to sit on his dick again.

In the end, I decided to split the difference and be Heartstrings Amy. After all, if I kept up the cold, distant act he would suspect something. And in order for Pedro’s plan to succeed, I needed to keep Jonathon relaxed enough to let something business-related spill.

So what was I supposed to do? I decided to try and put the deceptions to the back of my mind and just try to concentrate on having fun and enjoying his company. There was also a part of me that was hoping, even waiting for Jonathon to come clean and admit he was the owner of Acme Bread.

We hit the street level, and I noticed something missing. “No limo today?”

“I just kind of felt like driving.” Jonathon again offered his hand, and this time I took it. We walked a short distance down the street and around the corner. Jonathon unexpectedly released my hand, giving it a squeeze first, before he raced up a short flight of stone steps and spoke to two young teens. It looked as if he handed them cash.

“What was that all about?”

He stepped back onto the sidewalk and grinned. “Just two young men who had their first taste of entrepreneurship.”

Jonathon went to the passenger side door of a sleek, glossy indigo luxury car and opened it. I wasn’t sure of the make or model, but the inside looked more like a starship than a traditional dashboard console. I was impressed and I guess it showed.

“Would you like to drive?”

“What?” I looked at the dashboard and shook my head. “No thanks, I hate driving in the city. Cool car, though.”

“It’s a good day driver kind of car.”

I glanced at him sharply, but then I realized he wasn’t bragging or making a joke. He really considered the luxury automobile to be an avatar of baseline decency.

He put the car in drive and we eased out into traffic.

“So,” I said, “any favorites for the races today?”

“Favorites?” His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, who are you going to bet on?” I whipped my phone out of my purse and opened up the last tab I’d been perusing when he knocked on the door. “I mean, Wayfarer has 3:2.2 odds, but I like the looks of Still in His Original Box. That stallion’s got potential. He placed in his last eleven races and showed in his last twenty. Of course, with those kinds of odds the only way to make decent money after the take is to bet on him to win, period, but I guess you could split your bets if…”

I wound down and gave him a frank stare. “You don’t have any idea of what I’m talking about, do you?”

“I have SOME idea of what you’re talking about,” I said. “Though I admit the calculation of odds at the track seems to be deliberately arcane.”

“You just have to remember the percentage the track takes, is all, and do a little math in your head—”

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