Page 39 of Filthy Rich

Her skin’s smooth and rippled at the same time. So smooth I think I could run my finger across it and barely feel a thing, but rippled in smooth, almost consistent waves that look like the surface of a lake on a windy day.

“Allergies?” She arches one eyebrow. “I’d rather not blow you up like a balloon on our first date.”

First date.

The words are like a caress to me for some reason. My first date with Octavia Rothschild. Maybe it’s her voice, which is so smooth and silky it could be like a caress. But I think it’s more the idea that I’m with someone I chose, someone much better than me.

Someone I like.

She makes me happy. I’m not sure why, but she does. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve met who make me happy.

Bea.

Probably my foster parents.

And now, Octavia, too.

She starts walking, and I have to jog to catch up. “I have no allergies,” I say. “You?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless you count wasps.”

“Whoa,” I say. “That’s a big one, but I doubt it’ll change my dinner plans.”

“I carry an epi-pen,” she says. “And a fistful of pills. No need to worry.”

“But shellfish and peanut butter are A-OK,” I say. “Noted.”

“Wait, are you going to make shellfish?” She blinks. “And what about peanut butter? Would that be with the shellfish?”

“I can’t really say what’s on the menu,” I say. “But you know, anything but wasp venom is a possibility.”

She rolls her eyes. “But with twenty bucks, our options are pretty limited.”

“What do you mean?”

She leans over the refrigerated bin. “This steak, for instance, is twenty-four dollars.” She shakes her head. “I’m four dollars short, and that’s before sides or seasonings are considered.”

“Well, shoot.” I pull my wallet out. “Maybe I should change the budget a little?—”

She shakes her head. “No, no, this is a game, right? We see who can make the best meal with twenty bucks.”

Before I can ask her what she’s planning to get, she ducks around the corner—into the international aisle, maybe?—and she hollers. “Meet you in produce in two minutes.”

She’s clearly had an idea, and I still have nothing. You’d think that while I was searching for this date plan I’d have found, you know, an idea of what I should buy.

Okay, think, Jake. What do I know how to make?

Nothing.

I’m totally useless. Why didn’t I rule this idea out as soon as I remembered that I never cook? I order all my food. That’s my one move. Bea doesn’t really cook much either. I blame Seren for cooking so well that none of us needed to learn, but I have no ideas and I’m desperate, so I text Bea anyway.

Mayday! What meal can I cook for under $20?

Why do you need to cook? You know what? Forget the answer. You’re doomed.

She’s rude. I forget sometimes how rude she is.

Is this for your date? Ermagosh, I had no idea you were such an idiot. Don’t try to make her anything, not if you ever want to see her again. Call in takeout immediately.

---