Page 66 of Return Billionaire to Sender

Malcolm is Chuckles, changing the story by showing his appreciation for Stanley—aka Gerrold and his firm.

My pulse races. Malcolm is going to do this thing. He’s going to buy the company, and he’s going to throw those people out of work.

And it’s all because of me and my dog anecdote.

I look over at Malcolm to find him gazing at me with that evil, sexy look of his that always makes my skin feel too tight.

Arrgh. I force my gaze back onto the screen, where there are images of the two logos side by side—the heraldic Germantown Group logo alongside the Blackberg Inc. black mountain.

I glower.

Junior glowers.

The session ends. Gerrold is warm in saying goodbye. He wants a copy of the “backgrounder” and Walt promises to send it.

I go up to Malcolm when we’re all filing out to the hall. “What have you done?” I whisper.

Malcolm smiles innocently. “What?” His phone pings. “Sorry, I have to take this and then I’m headed across town.”

I grit my teeth. I can’t believe I ever kissed this man!

“Oh, and we’re going to have to do a dinner session tonight,” he informs me. “I’ll have Walt text details when we’re en route, but I’m thinking seven-ish.”

“What?” I ask. “Since when do we do dinner sessions?”

But he’s already gone.

* * *

Our dinner sessionis to take place at the nicer of the onsite Maybourne Hotel restaurants—the one my new coworkers avoid because it costs an arm and a leg.

But this is to be Malcolm’s treat, according to the instructions Malcolm’s NY admin texted me. The instructions are also to dress for dinner.

I only brought my work pantsuits and one of my going-out-with-the-girls skirt outfits.

I decide I’ll wear my work pantsuit, complete with a blue-and-white striped butterfly tie, in order to demonstrate to Malcolm that this is a work thing, and that we are not in any way socializing.

And I apparently need to demonstrate that to myself, too, because I still can’t stop thinking about that kiss.

I walk in. The place is elegant in a minimalist way, with white walls and ornate plaster ceilings and candles flickering like scattered diamonds.

I’m led across the main dining room to a small side room off the main dining area. The side room contains a few candlelit tables, but only one is occupied—the farthest one, nestled against the far wall near the corner. And there sits Malcolm, relaxed and darkly elegant in a casual black suit jacket and jeans and a white shirt with no tie.

He stands as I approach, eyes falling to the tie at my neck. I can’t read his expression, but I’m sure he’s disappointed that I chose not to follow his dress code and instead arrived in my dorky business suit.

Good. If he thinks this is some sort of celebration for his evil triumph, he’s so wrong.

“Don’t you look lovely,” he says.

I sit, setting the iPad on the table, further signifying to us both that this is a business meeting.

He touches his neck. “The blue with white stripes. It’s one of my favorites.”

Is he messing with me? “Whatever you say.” I fire up the iPad. If he wants to eat dinner, it’s fine with me, but he will watch his hour while paying keen attention. And I’m not telling him any more post office anecdotes, either. Or kissing him.

The waiter appears, fills my glass with something bubbly, and leaves.

“Umm…”

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