Page 88 of Return Billionaire to Sender

But then I imagine myself standing out there on the sidewalk across the street from our building while the wrecking ball flies. I picture us all crying, stuffing our faces with sad cookies that Lizzie made. And deep in the pit of my stomach, I’d know that I didn’t do everything I could have.

Nothing’s impossible—I don’t care what Malcolm says.

There’s a knock on the door. “Room service.”

I didn’t order room service. Do they have the wrong room? I open up and there’s a uniformed woman with a cart.

“You must have the wrong room,” I say. “I didn’t order anything.”

“I know this is the right room.” The woman points to a small envelope on the cart. The envelope reads Elle, room 709. “Are you Elle?”

“I am,” I say. “But…”

“Then this is for you.” She pushes the cart into the room.

There are two of those silver-domed plates and a bottle of sparkling water next to a glass of ice. There’s also a large gift box the size of two or three stacked pizza delivery boxes, and it’s wrapped in silver paper printed with pink hedgehogs.

“Thank you,” I say. “Wait, let me a…” I turn to scan for my purse.

“Tip’s taken care of.” With that, she leaves.

I pull the top off of one of the silver domes. It’s a plate with three almond croissants and two bowls of crackers. Under the other dome are mounds of blackberries and raspberries and an assortment of cheeses.

Malcolm.

I take a croissant and bite in. It’s just so incredibly thoughtful, I want to die. But first things first. I finish the croissant and move on to the cheese and crackers, telling myself I need to build up strength to open the present, because it might be amazing, which will complicate things more than they already are.

It’s not until I’ve made my way through two croissants, the entire wedge of Brie, and most of the crackers, that I bring the gift to the bed and sit down next to it, running my fingers over the bright paper. Hedgehogs. An accident? Or did he notice that, too? I slip off the bow and carefully untape the edges, pulling the paper off and folding it neatly. I remove the lid, part the tissue paper, and gasp.

It’s a vintage postal bag—a midcentury one, my favorite era for postal bags—and it has little hedgehogs embroidered along the edges of the flap. I run my fingers over the stitchery, pulse racing. I open the flap and explore the interior. How did he ever find such a thing? It’s a bit beaten up—enough to show that a real letter carrier once used it, which makes me love it more. And the stitched hedgehogs. A sob of gratitude clogs my throat; for a moment, I almost can’t breathe. I’ve never had somebody give me such a gift.

I stand and swing it over my shoulder and take a look at myself in the mirror. It’s the most fabulous thing I own.

Not that I can keep it.

I can’t keep it.

I hold it a moment longer, then I take it off and nestle it back into the box and replace the lid.

“I can’t take this,” I say when I get Malcolm on the phone. “It’s sweet—thank you—but I can’t. You have to have room service come back and get it. I can’t accept gifts.” I’m hoping maybe this sounds like an official Bexley Partners policy. I’m sure they have such a policy.

“It’s for you. So you have to keep it,” he says.

I argue with him a bit. There’s another knock on the door. Is room service back? I open it.

It’s him, looking beautiful as usual, elegant jacket unbuttoned, shirt crisp and white over his T-shirt. Is this what he lounges around in his hotel room wearing? Rummaging around in the mini-bar, spinning through the cable channels, always looking like a GQ model?

He strolls into the room, phone in hand.

He sits down in my chair and crosses his legs, giving me that piercing brown-eyed gaze. “The bag is custom-embroidered, so I won’t be returning it. You’re going to have to keep it. Or throw it away. Or donate it to a homeless shelter. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he adds with a devilish gleam.

“Maybe I will,” I say.

“Come on, at least give it a spin before you donate it.”

“I have given it a spin.”

“Have you, though?” He takes it from the box and comes to me. I can feel his body even before he touches me. We’re alone, and I can feel everything about him. He holds the bag up by the strap, as if to measure it against me, then adjusts the strap and hands it back to me.

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