Page 86 of Most Eligible Billionaire

“I don’t know how to feel about you knowing so much about the lifestyle of the rich and famous. It’s a useless thing to study.” I shut the thing off, but the image of Henry dancing with a gorgeous redhead is burned into my mind.

“That girl got a dance,” Carly points out unhelpfully. “You got a company.”

“Is it stupid-amount-of-candy-in-ice-cream time yet?” I ask.

She grins. “For breakfast? Don’t bluff, I might take you up on it.”

I get up and start her eggs. “Tonight.”

On the way out, we discover the box in the lobby, addressed to me. It’s the size of a coffee mug, but perfectly square, wrapped in Locke-blue paper.

“Uh,” I say, shoving my key into the lock.

“Aren’t you going to open it? Don’t you want to see?”

“I already know what’s in it. It’s whatever rich guys think they can use to buy anything and anyone. I don’t want it.”

“Maybe it’s something nice.”

“I don’t want it.”

She grabs it. “Can I open it?” She shakes it. “Light as air.”

“You need to toss that package.”

“Without even looking inside?”

“Without even looking inside,” I say, heading out.

Rich jackass, rich jackass, rich jackass, I tell myself, all the way to Carly’s school. But it doesn’t sink in. I need to get deprogrammed off Henry. There needs to be a service like that. I need to be strapped to a chair, and every time I see a picture of Henry I get shocked or doused with cold water.

But that just makes me think of that thing Henry said—If I wanted to wear my hair in a marshmallow Afro and live in a woman’s purse, I think I could find a dominatrix to make it happen.

I smile.

I go to the makers space and of course everyone is asking where Henry is. Apparently he showed up looking for me. A few people have questions on the commission work. I give them April’s number. April has instructions that I’m on vacation. She’ll alert me to anything important.

It’s on the third day that I turn officially pathetic. We were together for more than two weeks straight and I miss seeing his face. I miss the careful way he explained every last thing about his company. His dorky mnemonic devices for memorizing everyone’s names. I miss the way we got to be finishing each other’s sentences.

I won’t see him. Can’t.

Then comes the phase of jonesing so much for him that I start making jonesing bargains. I tell myself if I don’t open the package, I might go online and look for new pictures of him, and that would be even worse. Right?

So it’s entirely preventative.

Must. Open. Package!

I go find Carly. “You can open it.”

She frowns. “You asked me to throw it away.”

“Go get it.”

She furrows her brows. “I’m sure the trash man’s hauled it off by now.”

“Yeah. Go get it.”

Carly springs up and goes behind her little curtain. She comes back and sets it on the kitchenette table between us, practically rubbing her hands.

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