Page 32 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Why not try to look past that? It may not be the fanciest place, but don’t you see how hard they work to make it beautiful?”

“Is that a line from Oliver Twist?”

I frown, chest raging with frustration—and something more that I can’t define. “Are you ready to resume your lesson?”

“Is it just about torturing and punishing me?” he asks. “If that’s the goal, you should’ve shown footage of vintage golf clubs being run over by busses. That would hurt me a lot more.”

“You’re telling me you would care more about golf clubs being destroyed than people’s lives being torn apart? This beautiful building that they’ve put their hearts into? The loss of this close-knit community, a group that’s almost like a family?”

“Depends on the golf clubs,” he says.

I glare at him, stewing.

Something flashes up on his phone just then. He looks down, then back up at me.

“You just checked your phone.”

“You can’t ask me to go dark. You just can’t. I thought we’d established that.”

Can I really not ask that? I need him to pay attention. I need him to learn about my friends. I want him to feel like he knows them, and then maybe he’ll come to care about them a little bit. God, why did I think this would work? He’s so powerful and so busy, and what do I have?

I suck in a breath. “You were mandated to undergo a program to be designed by an accredited executive coach, were you not?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“This program must be viewed without multitasking. That is part of the program. If you look at your phone even one more time, I won’t be able to give you your check for the day.”

He watches me for a long, silent moment with that hard-sparkle gaze.

My heart thunders. What is he thinking?

But then—suddenly, miraculously—he turns off his ringer and sets his phone on the table. His phone is dark and sleek like him. “Take it.”

I pick it up. It’s cool, heavy—more heavy than it should be, somehow, the way I’d imagine a loaded gun might feel.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” he says.

“Great,” I say brightly, setting the phone aside. Was that too easy? But hey, he’s cooperating, right?

We watch the rest of it, much of which is taken up by Antonio practicing a monologue. Jada definitely loves filming Antonio. I cut it off at exactly the end of his session, just to show him that I, too, am respecting the rules.

I hold his phone out to him and he takes it. Our fingers brush momentarily, sending a crazy charge of energy skittering over my skin, a sign of how jacked up I am—that’s what I tell myself.

He pockets his phone without so much as looking at me, because of course, he’s unaffected. He stands, resting his large, muscular hand upon his now-empty seat back.

Nervously, I put away my presentation stuff. Is he waiting for something?

His voice, when it comes, is a rumble of cool velvet. “Do I get my tick?”

Is he mocking me? I can’t tell.

“Well?” he asks.

“For today,” I say.

* * *

The plane landsand we’re whisked into a matching pair of SUV limos that ferry us to the Maybourne Hotel in the San Francisco Financial District.

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