Page 83 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Thank you,” she says politely, as if nothing but a client.

“Drink it,” I command.

She’s still staring at the drink.

“Now,” I growl.

She sips. Makes a face.

I want to fix her, and I don’t know how. It makes me crazy. I felt so in tune with her during our dinner session, and I don’t get in tune with people all that much. I’d planned to ask her on a proper date, to that restaurant on the water, but now I’m not sure.

“Drink. All of it. The whole thing,” I say.

She gulps it down. I take the empty glass from her and give her the orange juice.

“Thank you. So sweet—you really didn’t have to.”

I let up on the interrogation on the way back, allowing her to point out features of buildings. She seems to be feeling better.

The negotiation is unremarkable; it’s not uncommon to have a sleepy session after a breakthrough session like yesterday’s.

Mostly this one is awhat ifsession—we’re not at a deal, but we’re exploring it. We spend the two hours imagining what it might look like together. Gerrold wants things for his people he’ll never get, like job training and placement for fired workers. He needs to get the asking out of his system, though. He needs to be able to look at himself in the mirror and see the person he saw in the video that we made—the caring steward of the company, handing it off to another caring steward. He needs to be able to tell himself that I feel some kind of tribal allegiance that will lead me to sacrifice my own profitability.

Is that what a good person does? Is that what the people in the 341 building do? No doubt. And they probably talk about itad nauseum,too.Got your back!

On the way back to the hotel, Elle makes it known to the group that she’s going to take a “nice nap.” And not with yours truly—that’s clear.

“We have our afternoon session scheduled,” I say.

“I’ll email your assignment,” she says. “You’re to use our time slot to do the assignment. It’ll be a work-at-your-own-pace session.”

“Ah,” I say. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been elated for us to have a work-at-your-own-pace session, and I would’ve promptly turned it into a Malcolm’s-assistant-works-at-his-own-pace session.

I go back to my own room to work on the Germantown proposal. Sure enough an email comes. She’s created a PDF worksheet with questions about the people in the building, and links to a few of the videos in case I need to brush up.

As if.

The questions are simple, mostly revolving around people’s professions and professional aspirations. Elle’s unorthodox training has given me a lot of knowledge about the people in the building, and while this hasn’t translated into any executive soft skills, it has definitely resulted in an unhealthy fascination with my executive soft skills coach.

Did I move too fast? Did I scare her off?

And then instead of being caring and tender, I made her drink a disgusting beverage. But what was I supposed to do? She wasn’t communicating with me. She was clearly upset. She gave me no other ways to fix the thing.

My team is texting me about the proposal. I tell them to figure it out, and I go back to Elle’s worksheet, elaborating on my answers. I make a few observations on the power of Tabitha’s sunshiny attitude and Mia’s dogged determination. I praise Antonio’s ever-growing acting skills—Elle will enjoy that I noticed.

Never have I put so much energy into winning over a woman. Usually it’s enough to just want them, but the harder ones require a dinner or maybe a diamond trinket.

Elle would hate a diamond trinket, so here I am. But I do have a lot of opinions on the people, and I think it will be fun to discuss them later. I casually toss out that I have a theory about the identity of the dryer-lint-screen bandit. I don’t tell her my theory, only that I have it.

Which is sure to drive her crazy.

I wish I could buy her a little something and have it sent to the room.

Maybe fresh-squeezed juice and fresh flowers, but that’s something she could get for herself. Well, I know what she would most want––the building saved. Documents converting it into a co-op. I imagine her pretty lips parted in shock, her green eyes wide. There’s something irresistible about the idea of giving her what she wants.

I’d put it under John and Maisey’s joint management—that would be the icing on the cake. It would almost be worth it, just to see the shock on her face.

Almost.

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