Page 87 of Return Billionaire to Sender

Noelle

I have justover one hundred fifty bucks in my bank account, and I use it to pay AJ—I buy him the gift certificate with it. I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow. Who knows, maybe I’ll be busted tomorrow, but for today, he’ll stay quiet.

I buy a soda at the bar and go sit down with the team who is already at dinner. Everybody is still talking about the historic backgrounder. I nab some of their bread.

The next day’s session feels like it goes on forever, possibly because I had no breakfast and I’m starving.

After holding out as long as possible, I take one of the almond croissants and I eat it slowly, ripping off small pieces, savoring each and every bite, making it last. It tastes better than usual. I save the most almondy bite for last. I pop it into my mouth and pretty much let it melt, let the goodness suffuse me.

Then I look up and meet Malcolm’s thunderous gaze and I freeze, because it’s so intense, and it makes me feel so strangely alive. Then somebody asks a question and he looks away to answer it.

I swallow the last of it and wipe my hands, turning my attention to the PowerPoint, but it’s not long before my attention is back on the pastry tray.

I torture myself wondering if they throw them all away once the session is over. I toy with saying something about feeding them to the birds, but I can only imagine Malcolm’s dim view of that.

Malcolm is his usual engaging and personable self, interested in everything, enchanting people into divulging their secrets. I really do think he likes to learn about the people around him. God, if AJ told him who I really am, he’d be so pissed off.

I need to figure something out about AJ.

Does somebody need a visit from the fist of Malcolm Blackberg?

For a short, wickedly indulgent moment, I imagine Malcolm turning his dark power to AJ. Malcolm would be angry to hear that I’m masquerading as his executive coach, but something tells me that he’d be angrier if he knew that AJ was blackmailing me.

In fact, Malcolm would hunt him down if he knew. Yeah, Malcolm and his fist would so hunt him down. Shivers go over me.

Malcolm is all about tormenting me, but he would definitely draw the line at allowing AJ to torment me. This is the pathetic direction of my thoughts as I stare at the plate of pastries.

God, what is happening to me? I get control of myself, turn my full attention back to Gerrold and his son, and I keep it there for the rest of this session.

Malcolm asks about our coaching session plans on the way back. I decide to make him do another session in writing, in order to have time to collect my thoughts.

He seems disappointed. “Did you read my answers on yesterday’s quiz? I thought they were very comprehensive.”

“Not yet,” I mumble, and I escape to my room.

Am I being a coward? All I want to do is turn off my phone and hide—hide from AJ, hide from my inappropriate feelings for Malcolm, even hide from my girlfriends.

After all, I’m supposed to be saving our building. And what am I doing? Falling for Malcolm and doing sexy things with him. And now I’m hiding in my room. How many more chances will I have to show him the video?

But it feels more and more wrong to be posing as his coach. It was easy not to care about him when he was a bad guy with a plan to tear down our building. But up close and personal, there’s something tragic about his ferocity, like he’s lashing out at the world, fumbling toward some kind of solace that he never quite finds. And he’s funny—honestly, he might be the cleverest man I’ve ever met.

And yes, he’s fierce and even a bit frightening when you don’t know him, but there’s this hidden sweetness to him.

And I think he really does care about people…in his own compartmentalized way. He wouldn’t see people the way he does if he didn’t care. Why, then, is he so fiercely solitary? Surrounding himself with temporary people, in and out of his life like leaves in the breeze?

Humans are social animals who need each other; it’s how our hearts are built. Malcolm is no different.

I flop down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I came to force him to see our humanity, instead I’m seeinghis.

What am I going to do?

I’m not without an exit strategy—I could give Malcolm all of the check marks, declare him to have passed the course, and inform Bexley that I’m going to Estonia. And slip silently back into my real life.

It would be a completely effective transition—unless people started comparing photographs, and why would they?

I’d go home and start packing.

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