Page 105 of Return Billionaire to Sender

I quiz her about her favorite eateries in New Jersey. I usually quiz people about their lives because it helps me gain control over them, but with Elle, I want to know all.

She doesn’t like to talk about Newark, but she comes to life when she talks about her friend group. They all seem to live near each other—maybe in the same neighborhood? I’m glad that she found what she set out to find.

She nearly dies with each plate that comes across the table. It’s not about corrupting her anymore—I can feel her pleasure as if it’s my own.

“Thank you again for this,” she says, motioning to her dress.

“You look stunning.”

She waves it off. “It’s not my usual thing, but I really love it. I know I’m not the most fashionable person ever,” she says.

“I like the way you dress.”

“Oh, come off it,” she says. “Nobody likes how I dress.”

“I do. You’re utilitarian. Taking the decision-making out of dressing saves bandwidth. I admire it. It’s what I do.”

“That’s why you wear your black suits every day? To save bandwidth? So you can save your vast brilliance for the negotiating room?” she asks, grinning.

I reach over and wind a lock of her hair in my finger. “Among other things.”

“For me, it’s more about a proven outfit. It gives me one less thing to feel awkward about. I’m not good with people.”

“I’m not really, either.”

“Oh, please,” she says. “So what have I been watching in those negotiation sessions for the last two weeks? What was that?”

“Business skills,” I say.

“Oh-kayyyy,” she says.

“It’s true, I’d far prefer to stay away from everyone.”

Her gaze locks on mine.

“Except now,” I add.

“Okay, then,” she whispers.

People think I’m misanthropic, that I don’t like my fellow human being. It’s more of a chicken and egg thing, though. Not liking my fellow human being came after my fellow human being not much liking me. Elle has carved out an exception to that rule. For whatever bizarre reason, she’s decided to believe in me, to think I have a good heart. I find it…compelling.

Every entrée comes with a creative presentation—a squiggle of sauce, or a sprig of something stuck upright in the food like a flag, and she seems to find it funny. And really, it is funny, and we laugh as each ensuing entrée has more extreme artiness to it, which is something I never paid attention to before. We decide the cook is trolling us.

I ask her if she’s ever seen the small mammal exhibit at the San Diego zoo. She hasn’t. I tell her about the extensive hedgehog display. She looks excited. I’m thinking about a side trip.

We order decaf and three desserts and I watch Elle dig into them with gusto. It’s the perfect dinner.

Until I look across the room and see him there.

He’s standing next to the host station while his driver/bodyguard attempts to land a decent table, because he stays above that kind of thing. Or he might be too drunk; one never knows.

I set down my fork. He seems to be scanning the place. Did somebody tell him that I was dining here, or is it just bad luck?

“What’s wrong?” Elle asks.

“Unwelcome visitor,” I say. “Whatever happens, don’t react. Hopefully he’ll just go away.”

“Is he a murder hornet?”

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