Page 73 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

She rolls her eyes. “Such an asshole.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

She narrows her eyes. “You heard me.”

I drain my drink as my mood deflates. I, of all people, should know that reality never matches the pretty surface of things. The phone calls were magical. Utterly magical—a word I never apply to anything but they were.

And I had to break the spell. I had to take more.

Worse, I feel like she knows it. I can feel her nervousness.

“Can I ask you, what made you call me like that in the first place?”

She grins sheepishly. “There actually was another service set up. A Canadian service. But I was so nervous they wouldn’t come through that I set up a call for myself for ten minutes before that. And they never came through.” She goes on to tell me a funny story about her roommate, about the comedy of errors that led to her calling me a motherfucker.

It’s amusing. I’m laughing.

“I was so paranoid when I saw you next. I thought for sure you’d fire me. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when you said the service was unorthodox!”

The appetizers and more drinks come. We’re actually having fun. I never imagined her with a roommate, either. I push the last bruschetta her way. “I’m saving room.”

Her eyes sparkle. She reaches across the table with a napkin and dabs at my lapel.

“Uh-oh,” I say. “User error?”

“Just a little one. It would be a shame to ruin this beautiful jacket.”

“I had half a mind to wear my lab coat. Maybe I should’ve.”

She snorts. “To the Blue Stag? Why on earth would you do that?”

“I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Well, you know I do.” She smiles. She seems about to say something more, but then our entrees come.

This is all wrong. Is she feeling as unenthusiastic about our date as I am?

“Talk to me,” I say as soon as the waiter leaves.

“What do you mean?”

“This is me. We’re here. Cards on the table. Are you feeling weird about this? I want you to tell me if you are.”

“Why would you think that?” She tilts her head. “I’m happy we’re out, finally. It’s just all…so unusual.”

“It is,” I say, adjusting my napkin in my lap. “The phone calls—that’s not something I do every day. Or ever. And I want you to know, I’m not expecting anything. We’re just out for dinner.”

Hurt flashes across her face; she quickly covers it with a bright smile. “It had to happen,” she says. “I mean…”

“Well, you were pretty against it.”

“Can you blame me?” She picks up her fork and spins a bunch of pasta.

“I suppose not.”

I dig into my steak, unable to shake the feeling that something isn’t right. That she isn’t right. She used a voice-disguising app, yes, but it’s more than her tone. She’s so much more formal and tentative in person.

I ask her about her family, and she brightens up, talking about her niece. I like her most when she talks about her niece.

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