Page 48 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Quite the view here, isn’t it?” I say. “Different from New York. Or the rolling hills of rural Pennsylvania.”

Her gaze snaps to mine. “Somebody’s been nosy.”

“Wouldn’t you be more surprised if I hadn’t looked?”

“I suppose,” she says.

“What inspired you to move away from there? A small-town girl moving to such an urban part of Jersey, working in the big city. That’s a major move.”

“Not much need for executive coaches out on the rolling hills and potato fields.”

“So you moved to the big city for the plentiful executive coaching opportunities?” I doubt that would be her reason, but sometimes when you offer the wrong reason, a person corrects you.

She frowns. I can see the thoughts, back and forth behind her eyes. Should she correct me? Is this a conversation she wants to indulge?

“I suppose it was always a dream of mine—bright lights, big city. Somewhere bigger, anyway,” she adds quickly. “And to have lots of girlfriends near me. Fun things going on.”

“Fun things going on?” I ask.

She smiles. “If you think you’re running out the clock on your session, I should remind you that this conversation does not count as part of it. We have the video program to get through.”

“I know,” I say. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” she says. “I very much did.” She sounds almost wistful.

“But,” I offer.

She furrows her pretty brow. “Are you ready?”

“But what?” I ask.

“But we have an hour-long program to get through,” she says.

Room service arrives right then. A woman pushes in a tray with domed platters, plus a pitcher of lemonade with two glasses and a small stack of plates. She comes to a stop next to Elle’s chair.

I stand. “Thank you,” I say, handing over a tip.

“What is this?” Elle asks.

“Refreshments.” I pull the lid off of a pile of almond croissants—I had them bird-dog the Kendrick building’s bakery source. There are almond and chocolate arranged around the edges. The other platter holds an assortment of fruits, crackers, and cheeses.

She’s staring, wide-eyed as I pour her a glass of lemonade.

“You ordered food?” she asks. “Didn’t you have lunch?”

“Snacks. Fix yourself a plate,” I say. I fix myself one with cheese and a bunch of grapes and a croissant and settle in.

She’s frowning.

“Surely eating doesn’t count as multitasking,” I add.

“We’ll see.” She hesitates, turns on the video—without taking a plate, though she does her fair share of consuming the food with her eyes. She clearly wants it. What’s stopping her?

“Nothing for you?” I ask. “Not hungry?”

She says, “Every time you talk, I’m restarting this thing from the beginning.”

I pantomime my lips zipped and pop a grape into my mouth.

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