Page 108 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Dear old Dad had his part.”

“You were her son,” she says.

“But much more my father’s son, unfortunately.” I take a strand of her hair between my fingers. “It’s so cute that you’re looking for an explanation other than the fact that I come from a long line of villains. He’s an asshole, and I’m an asshole.”

“I won’t accept that. That’s not in any way true or at all how it works.”

“Are you so sure?”

“I know you. I know that you stood up for me,” she says.

“Maybe I wanted to get laid,” I say, forcing a grin. The bandage over my lip pulls off.

“Malcolm, look what you’ve done!” She presses it back on the unhurt part of my lip, but the stickiness is worn off. “I have to put on a new one now,” she scolds. “And also, I personally know you’re a good guy.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

She takes a new butterfly bandage from the wrapper, concentrating on the placement, fingers trembling pressing the edges of the bandage flat, repeating the movement way more than she needs to. Is she nervous about something?

Her nervousness makes me nervous. Like something real is happening.

I keep my smirk up, but inside, my blood thunders.

What people don’t know about being a bad person is that it’s not that hard. When you’re already hated, more hate doesn’t hurt. Just like if you’re wet, more water won’t make you wetter. You become immune at some point.

People’s glares, once you get used to them, are easy to take after a while, even amusing.

What’s not easy to take is a beautiful little rube who believes in me. I don’t have a place to put that. I think that I’d have to carve that place out of flesh and bone.

“Hey, I almost forgot—I read your essay question answers.” She narrows her eyes at me. “The dryer-lint bandit? You don’t really have a theory, do you?”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” I say.

“What?” she asks.

“Do I get a free tick if I tell?” I ask.

“You know that’s not the kind of coach I am,” she says. “Come on, just tell me.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Oh my god, you are terrible!” Then, “Please?”

“Nope,” I whisper. Why would I tell her when it’s so much fun not to?

“Is it based on something specific, or just intuition?” she asks.

“Of course it’s based on something,” I say.

“I’ll get it out of you,” she says.

“Maybe.”

Soft fingers brush my cheek. Her gentle touch burns. She has no idea. “You got a good hit in on him,” she says.

“I did, didn’t I?”

She gazes at me, eyes impossibly green—army green. Because she’s a fighter. “The way you hit him,” she says, beaming. “Soft skills not in evidence.”

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