Page 50 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Insanity?” I try.

“Come on.” She’s eating one of her cheese and cracker sandwiches. She goes on to another.

“Let’s see,” I say casually. “Do they want an excuse to use the homemade guillotine that they’ve been building in the basement?”

She laughs, covering her mouth to keep from spitting crumbs. “Stop. Give a real answer.”

“Or what?” I ask. “Will you give me an X?”

Right then, that witchy look comes over her face. “Maybe,” she says.

My pulse races. God, that witchy look from the dressing room—like a sexy secret coming up from deep inside of her. Country-mouse Elle, eating all the snacks, tormenting me, inventing her little quizzes.

This nearly irresistible compulsion to grab her hair and kiss her washes over me. I force my gaze to the screen, though out the corner of my eye, I can see that she’s building another open-faced sandwich with a cracker, two giant hunks of cheese, and several grapes. A French sandwich. You can’t build a proper French sandwich on a cracker. I should have ordered French bread. Next time I’ll get French bread.

“Well?” she asks.

“Give me a moment, I’m trying to think,” I say as she chows down. I wait for her to finish it, and then I say, “I give up.”

She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “It’s because they care about the place. They love that building and each other.”

“But there is a saboteur in their midst,” I say, “who must be unmasked.”

“That’s not the point. Look how deeply they care about every little thing in that building. Imagine the effect that knocking it down will have on these people.”

“I’m to get all of this from their fervent—and might I add, slightly insane—hunt for the dryer screen bandit?” I say.

She shrugs. “It means a lot to them,” she says.

I smile. “Spirit,” I say with Shakespearean enunciation. Dramatically I hold my hands in front of my face, shielding my eyes. “Please, spirit, I can’t bear to see anymore. Remove me from this place!”

“W-what are you talking about?” she asks.

“You’re the ghost of Christmas present, showing me the lives I’m ruining. Will I be treated to Christmas future after this? Will Tiny Tim yet live? Just to be clear, I’m Scrooge in this formulation. I’m entirely comfortable with that, you know.”

She hits play. Discreetly, I watch her eat, watch her pink tongue dart out to lick the powder off the side of her lips.

She turns to me. “Are you even watching?”

“How could I tear my eyes away?”

“I feel like you’re not watching.”

“You want to give me a quiz?” I ask. “Go ahead and give me a quiz. Or maybe I’ll give you one.”

“You’ll givemea quiz? Regarding the people there?”

“I certainly will.” I raise my pointer finger. “What secret is John keeping?”

Elle hits pause. “You think that…this John fellow has a secret?”

“I don’tthinkthat he does; I know that he does,” I tease, pleased she hasn’t figured it out. Most people wouldn’t.

“Well…he wears that hat from the army a lot,” she says. “You think it has something to do with the army?”

“Nope. Something contemporary. Regarding another resident.”

This perks her up. “What is it?”

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