Page 45 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

Amelia

The night after our date at the races, I was left more confused than ever. Jonathon was either the most convincing actor on the face of the earth, or he was really into me.

Or I was a lot more gullible than I ever gave myself credit for.

No matter what the case was, I had no idea how to proceed. I had gone through the entire date without attempting to pick Jonathon’s brain a single time. I could have, quite easily, but I chose not to. Why?

Because I’d been having too much fun.

I was up late that night, finding it hard to sleep. Jonathon had wormed his way into my brain in a frustrating, almost irritating fashion. It was like having a flea crawling around in my nose that happened to release wonderful lavender and lilac scents. Sure, it was sort of pleasant but I also wanted it to leave me the fuck alone so I could sleep.

I’d never been with a guy where it was just so easy to have fun. Even with whatever was eating at him, even with me being worried he was just using me, I still managed to have a better time with him than any other man I’d ever dated.

I mixed myself some warm milk—if you put a little sugar in it doesn’t get that film on it, I bet you didn’t know that—and settled in sometime after three. I may have dozed a little, but have you ever got into that situation where you know you don't have much time left to sleep? So you just keep checking the time to find out how little time you really have to slumber, and get more and more stressed about it, until the next thing you know the sun is coming up? Yeah, it was one of THOSE nights.

When I finally dragged my ass into the bakery—fifteen minutes past when I was supposed to be there—Pedro and Yerkov took notice of my bedraggled state.

“Look who’s doing the walk of shame,” Pedro said.

“I slept at my own place last night, thank you. By myself.” I walked past him and put my purse away in the office before slipping into an apron. “Did you start the yeast cultures yet?”

“Not yet.”

I set to filling a bucket with warm, but not hot water. At that point in my career, I could just hold my wrist under it and feel when it was the perfect temp. At one time it had been quite the struggle, and I’d killed a lot of yeast in my day trying to get it right. Once I had the water ready, I spooned cupfuls of the dry yeast into the bucket. Then I covered it with a towel and shoved it in a dark corner under a table.

“So your date didn’t go so well, huh?” Pedro said. “Is the guy a creep? Do me and my homies need to get rough with him?”

“Yeah, you so gangster,” Yerkov muttered. “Would not last one week in Russia.”

“In Soviet Russia, gangs bang YOU,” I said, and we all laughed. Well, okay, Yerkov didn’t laugh, but I don’t think he ever did. I’m sure he was smiling on the inside. Somewhere.

“No, he was nice, I just…”

“Oh wait,” Pedro said. “You went out with the Acme Bread guy, didn’t you?”

“We told her to do that, da?”

“Not now, Yerkov, I’m talking.” Pedro crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. “So, did you implement the plan?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Oh, come on,” Pedro said. “We NEED that corner lot. Sascha is going to quit if we don’t expand soon.”

“To be fair,” I said flatly, “She’s ALWAYS threatening to quit.”

“She might mean it this time. Look, I know that this guy might seem really cool, but he’s a rich dude. Rich dudes don’t give a crap about anyone who isn’t rich.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Besides, if this expansion goes through, you’re going to be on your way to being rich.”

“Then you hate yourself, if you hate rich persons,” Yerkov chimed in.

“I hate rich people because I’m poor. When I’m rich, I’ll hate poor people. It’s the American way.”

I ran a hand down my face and sighed. “Wow. And I thought Sascha was cynical.”

“You still haven’t told us why you didn’t try to pick his brain for information. I mean, maybe you could find something out that devastates his chances to win the bid for the corner lot. You never know!”

I had trouble looking him in the eyes.

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