Page 68 of Return Billionaire to Sender

I sigh. It does look delicious. And Iamhungry. I force myself to picture my friends back home, counting on me to save the building. But the food looks and smells delicious. And Malcolm is wearing his ghost of a smile again, beautiful in the candlelight.

I press the starched-white napkin into my lap.

18

Malcolm

I like people tomake sense. Everything I do in life is based on my ability to understand what drives people and to turn that knowledge to my advantage.

But I still can’t make sense of Elle.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she reallyisinvested in the empathy thing, but that doesn’t add up. The kind of person who takes money from Corman to torture me is not the same kind of person who cares whether I have empathy or not. And the person who cares about my having empathy doesn’t force me to watch an endless documentary about some building.

And then there was that kiss in the limo. Stunningly, mind-blowingly sexy. Elle is mind-blowingly sexy. How the hell does this country mouse have me seeing stars?

“What?” she asks.

Was I staring at her? “Dig in. The video’s not going anywhere,” I say.

“Though we are on a schedule,” she reminds me primly.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“You’re going to need to keep up your strength if you’re going to be battling the dark forces for my sorry soul.” I pass a plate. “Bruschetta?”

She rolls her eyes.

“No?” I ask.

She hesitates, then takes one. She’s excited about the food, though she struggles valiantly to hide that fact.

I pretend not to watch—my country mouse doesn’t like to be onstage. She takes a bite and chews briefly. Her eyes flare, a private little reaction that sends a strange ripple through my chest. She finishes it, eyes unfocused, lost in pleasure.

I’m more thrilled by this than I should be.

“Calamari?” I ask. She nods. I put a few of the plumpest rings of calamari on the plate in front of her, and pass over the sauces.

I focus on my food, barely tasting it—that’s how hard I’m monitoring her pleasure. “The bruschetta really is one of the perfect foods, don’t you think?” I say. “A tiny pizza, except with more artistry.”

She nods. “Or a really amazing sandwich without all the bread.”

“Yes, exactly,” I say. “A sandwich is slapping paint on the side of a barn, whereas the bruschetta is a perfectly crafted miniature.”

She grins. “And a pizza is a mass mail circular, whereas a bruschetta is a carefully chosen and thoughtfully written postcard to a specific person.”

“I’ve always wondered,” I say, “do letter carriers read the postcards?”

“Never,” she says. “We would never read somebody’s private mail.”

“Not ever?” I ask.

“It’s the mail,” she says. “It’sprivate. That would be—” She shakes her head as though she can barely contemplate such a thing. It’s so her. I love it.

We fall into a comfortable silence, enjoying the food. Since when is silence so comfortable with her?

“I really am curious, though,” I say. “If you really were concerned with me developing empathy and/or saving my soul, how do those videos fit in?” I say. “What exactly is the methodology?”

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