Page 36 of Return Billionaire to Sender

The mood transforms right then, like an electric current got shot around the table. Everybody’s gazes are fixed on their food.

Even the noise level in the restaurant has plummeted, like the diners all sense a predator has entered their midst, and they’ve lowered their voices, staying small and quiet.

I know without looking that Malcolm has arrived.

I glance over discreetly, and there he is, strolling past the hostess stand, heading for the bar.

He’s in an elegant black dinner jacket with a bright white shirt underneath. The bright white of it lends intensity to his dusky complexion. His gait is casual, strides long and confident, the picture of self-assured mastery, beautiful and alone.

It’s not just that he’s alone, it’s that he’sraginglyalone. He’s a fiercely isolated storm, speeding across the sky, shadowing the lands below, charging up the atmosphere with negative ions of fear and tension and something else, like some kind of aliveness.

“What’s he doing here?” Nisha whispers, even though there’s no way he could hear us. Still, she whispers it, like he has demon-level hearing. “Is he coming over here?”

“No way,” Walt whispers.

He takes a corner seat at the bar and looks down at his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be by himself. I feel weird going into places by myself, butaloneis Malcolm’s natural habitat. His hair is parted severely on the side, but two chunks of it hit down against his forehead like soft black spikes.

Everyone is looking at Coralee, being that she’s the master of gossip and the person who’s worked longest at Blackberg, Inc.—going on two years, I think she’d said. Even Coralee seems mystified. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “He can get room service to bring him any drink that they have. Why descend from his suite?”

“Prostitute,” Lawrence offers.

“Not likely,” Coralee gusts out, risking a quick glance over there.

“Do you think he knows we’re here?” Nisha asks.

“Oh, he knows,” Lawrence says. “He always knows the room. He’s a spider, and the whole world is his web, and he feels everything. Every little vibration in every corner. Every unfortunate little bug that flies into his web, Malcolm knows all.”

“You’re such a dork,” Nisha says. “But then again, he kind of does...”

I steal another quick glance, and right then he looks in our direction—right at me. Our gazes collide, and the fine hairs on my skin stand on end—every tiny, invisible little hair is straining and craning.

Am I the little bug? Does he feel my vibration? Because I’m definitely in full vibration mode.

“Erp,” Nisha whispers.

Walt raises his glass in a long-distance toast. Coralee nods. I copy Coralee, nodding at him from afar before I plaster my gaze down at my half-finished pasta, heart pounding.

“What is this strange madness?” Nisha asks. “Will he come over here, now?”

“Uncharted territory,” Coralee mumbles through unmoving lips, as if there’s even a danger of Malcolm reading lips.

Everybody is more subdued as we finish our meals. Even the topic of conversation—football—is tamer now, as if he might hear.

After dessert, Coralee announces she’s going aspirational shopping at the boutique in the lobby. Nisha claps. Nisha’s all in.

“What’s aspirational shopping?” I ask.

“It’s where we go to the boutique where they serve us bubbly while we try on designer gowns that we’ll never be able to afford,” Nisha says. “Come with. It’s fun.”

“That does sound fun,” I say. Though it would be better if we were going shopping where I could afford things. I feel out of place in my business outfit. They’ll think I’m weird if I keep wearing the wrong clothes to everything.

“I’ll pass,” Walt says.

Coralee throws a wadded-up napkin at him. “You’re not invited.”

The bill comes—separate checks. I take out my wallet.

“What are you doing?” Walt asks. “You didn’t use up your per diem already, did you?”

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