Page 82 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Nothing,” she says. “Personal matters. A situation that I found out about—just a bit upsetting. I didn’t think that I would be able to sleep.”

“Personal matter,” I echo, burning to know what it is.

“And I might have had a drink or two. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” I say.

She simply nods—she’s not falling for my repeat-the-last-words trick.

I can’t stand that she might have some dire situation, and that she’s feeling hungover, or worse, remorseful about what happened between us.

“Come on,” I say.

She looks alarmed. “What?”

“A ten-minute detour.”

Her eyes widen. “We can’t. We can’t…not anymore,” she says.

“A juice,” I say. “I can’t have you going into the session looking like you’re about to pass out. You need a juice and there’s a juice bar…” I point down the block. “What did you think I was proposing?” I text the group that we’re ten minutes out. I head down the block, steps hard on the concrete. She catches up. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. Late night. You know.”

“What’s really going on?”

“Nothing that concerns you, I swear it.” We get in line at the juice shop. I wait for more. “I got a call after our thing, that’s all,” she adds. “Upsetting news.”

I frown. What was her upsetting news? Her mother died a few years back. Her father lives out West somewhere…he doesn’t seem to be involved in her life, but I suppose it could be him. Or a friend thing. Or is it a medical situation with her? But doctors don’t call at night. Does she have pets back home? There’s so much about her that I don’t know.

Why, upon learning upsetting news, would she go out and drink with the traveling team? Were my lips on her cheek and my fingers on her pussy just minutes before not sufficient demonstration of my interest in her?

Is it not clear enough to her that I’m a fucking powerful billionaire who can solve most any problem with money? People love to say you can’t throw money at a problem, but in my experience, it works well. And where money doesn’t work, threats tend to come in handy, or perhaps a discreet application of foul play. Soulless corporate marauders such as myself really can be effective allies.

Yet my country mouse decides that getting drunk with the traveling team is the superior solution?

But I’ve learned over the years that you can’t bark these sorts of questions at a woman, and you’re not supposed to second-guess a woman’s problem-solving methods. You’re supposed to hold yourself back, much as you might want a crack at the problem.

She just stands there looking weary. Can she stop being maddening for one instant?

I grit my teeth. “Are you sure there’s nothing that I can do? I hope it’s not related to your tenure here as my coach.” I make a mental note to give another good report.

“No, just, there’s a problematic person, but I’m dealing with him.”

I stiffen.Him?

“Does somebody need a visit from the fist of Malcolm Blackberg?” I say it as a joke, but it’s not. Long experience has taught me that it’s best to say the iffy things as jokes.

She turns to me with the strangest look. “It’s under control,” she whispers fervently.

“It’s not under control from the sounds of it,” I say lightly, studying her face. “Say the word.”

“No, thanks,” she says. Naturally. She would never send me after a person.

“Unless the problematic person is me,” I say. “I draw the line at punching myself.”

She smiles, finally, and it swells something in my chest.

At the corner I buy her an alkalizing green juice plus an orange juice. I hand her the green juice first.

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