Page 18 of Return Billionaire to Sender

So hot.

“Maisey, then, excuse me. Maisey. Poor Maisey with her hip. And her home going to be knocked down by Scrooge.”

Stella’s nostrils flare. She’s unbelievably delicious—she really is.

I almost wish I didn’t have to be across town in thirty. I’d like to stand here and upset her some more. Don’t send a boy to do a man’s job—isn’t that how the American saying goes? And you definitely don’t want to be sending a hot little country mouse like Stella.

“Scrooge wouldn’t have knocked it down,” she says.

“Coachinganda literary discussion. I can’t wait for more of your presentation, I really can’t— four weeks of whining Mary Ann, or at least, one can hope.”

I wait for her to take issue with the name again. But she just says, “Four weeks?”

“And then you’ll get to put Blackberg Inc. on your resume. Quite the feather.”

“Four weeks,” she says, as though she hasn’t comprehended that part of it.

I really should go, but I find that I don’t want to. Getting a rise out of this one is more enjoyment than I’ve had in a very long time. I narrow my eyes. “Unfortunately, I will be bulldozing poor old Maimie’s buildingat the end of it all.” I gaze into her eyes. I set my hand on my desk, wrist down, fingers up. Slowly I begin to push a few things across, mimicking a bulldozer. “Vrum-vrum-vrum,”I tease.

She gets the strangest look on her face right then—that little spark flaring into an angry flame.

My pulse races. I have the improbable urge to kiss her, to consume all of that soft-looking skin and affronted purity.

“And regarding these negotiation sessions this week?”I continue, “I don’t care what the settlement says or how tightly the board has my balls wound up, there’s no way I’m having you tagging along in that Halloween costume. That is not happening. Yes, you get to observe and critique my soft skills and pass along what I’m sure is very road-tested knowledge that you have for how to run a company, but I will not have you making Blackberg, Inc. into a sideshow. You’re supposed to blend in with the team during the sessions—zero disruptions—that is the agreement. So this postal bit? Right?” I point at her costume. “Not happening.”

Shock lights her freckled features. Did she expect to wear it?

Lawrence pops his head in. “Bird’s waiting.”

I point at her. “Go. Figure it out with Lawrence.” I point at Lawrence. “The costume bit?” I draw a finger across my neck.

“Come on, then,” Lawrence says.

She gives me a bewildered look and scurries out after Lawrence, shutting the door softly behind her.

I grab my coat and head out the other way, getting Brandon on the phone as I take the stairs to the roof two at a time.

“What the fuck is this emotional intelligence training? Are you aware of this so-called training program they’ve concocted for me?” I bark.

“Um…” I hear keys clicking in the background. “An associate from Bexley Partners was stipulated. You had the ten o’clock intro session today. Everything okay? I mean, as okay as it can be, considering…”

“Considering that they’re wasting my fucking time in the most outrageous way they could dream up? Somebody’s fucking around here, because I don’t know what that training was…”

“Was it not emotional intelligence training?” he asks. “It seems like a pretty flexible descriptor but…”

“I can’t imagine what just happened is what anybody would have in mind.”

“Really,” he says. “The agreement was fairly ironclad, but it did stipulate emotional intelligence training, and if we can prove that the training doesn’t rise to that level, then maybe there’s wiggle room to get a different executive coach. We can’t get you out of it, but if you’re feeling a personality issue and we can maybe make them send somebody else—”

“Wait! No, no, I was just curious.” I stop at the door. I can hear my chopper on the other side. “Did Corman’s people suggest this firm?”

“I don’t know. I can find out. Do you want me to look into lodging a complaint?”

“No, no, wait.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. What am I doing? Why did I call him? “Don’t do anything. Better the devil you know.”

“Depends on the devil,” he says.

6

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