Page 95 of Filthy Rich

“Yes.” It looks like he just swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.

“And?” I peer at him. “Get to the bad part.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” I’m confused. “Unless. . . Do you think that is the bad part?” I shake my head. “Jake, Adam and Eve had Cain. The frivolous, idiotic parents in Pride and Prejudice had Kitty and Lydia, and they also had two amazing daughters.” I poke his arm. “Do you know what these people all have in common?”

He shakes his head.

“Every person born has one thing in common—we only own one single thing in this world.”

“What are you talking about?” But his face already looks lighter. He looks almost hopeful.

“We all have one thing when we’re born that only we own, and that’s our choices. So stop making such stupid ones. The Fansees won’t care any more than I do who your biological parents are. You could be the son of the devil himself, and I’d still love you.”

He swallows, and then he brushes himself off, and he offers me his hand. “I haven’t heard any yelling or banging in a while.”

At that very moment, a janitorial cart rolls in, a very large woman pushing it. She shrieks when she sees Jake.

“Sorry,” he says. “So sorry.”

Of course, then she realizes who he is, and she shrieks for another reason. It takes his signature and smiling through a few moments of gushing in broken English, but we do finally escape. As we walk out of the building, I’m still lamenting my spoiled shirt. “This is so not how I wanted to see you again.”

“You could have been wearing an orange trash bag.” He takes my hand in his and interlaces our fingers. “And I’d still have said this meeting was perfect.” He jerks his finger at the coffee cart. “You thirsty?” But his eyes are sparkling, and I know he’s teasing me about the stain.

“Shut it, jerk.”

I get a few glares as we exit the building, but I can’t tell whether it’s my face, the awful coffee stain, or our joined hands.

“Thanks for the dress, by the way,” I say. “It was beyond my expectations, and?—”

“And it made that album cover. I hear the sales have been phenomenal.”

“You heard that?” I ask. “Or you illegally logged in and checked?”

He stops walking and spins me around until I thunk into him. My hands spread out across his chest. “I love you, Octavia Rothschild. I love you in an orange trash bag. I love you in a fabulous ball gown. I love you when you’re contemplating stealing toilet paper.”

“To be clear, I proposed that you ask for it. I never condoned stealing.”

He winces. “You knew who I was when you picked me up.”

I laugh. He’s right. I did. “But go on.”

He smiles. “I love everything about you, but even if you aren’t scared about who my parents are, I worry that in the future, you’ll get sick of always having to redirect my little boat before it crashes into rocks.”

“As long as we’re talking about a metaphorical boat, I’ll be fine. I hate real boats. I get sick as a dog.”

“Do dogs get sick on boats?” he asks.

“Oh my word, get back to the point.”

“I love you,” he says. “I have for a long time, I think, and I won’t run away again, I promise.”

I jab him. “You better not. And you need to RSVP to your sister’s wedding.”

“Can’t I just go as your plus one and freak everyone out?”

I roll my eyes.

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