Page 98 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Are you sure about that?” he asks smoothly.

“Stop!” I snort. “I mean it. And isn’t the Monaco Club really fancy? What will they say about us watching a video at the table?”

“We’ll use earbuds,” he says.

“But, taking up a table.”

“With the money I drop there, we could have a three-day orgy on the tabletop.”

“That is definitely not in my coaching program,” I say, but the dinner works. I was worrying what I’d eat—I’m probably the only guest in the Maybourne Hotel who’s going hungry.

“What do you say? Leave at four thirty? I’m thinking cocktails first. I have a surprise for you.”

“You can’t be drunk for the video.”

“I don’t get drunk,” Malcolm says, and of course that makes sense. He’s such a control freak.

* * *

That afternoon,I finally get around to reading Malcolm’s answers to the essay questions I assigned the other day. I smile at his praise of Antonio’s acting skills. He has kind words for Mia, and it comes to me that they are similar sorts of people, both really blunt and opinionated. But most interesting of all: he has a theory on the dryer-lint bandit. How does he have a theory? I don’t even have a theory! The dryer-lint bandit never was caught. I think back through all the videos. Could there be clues? Right in the video?

The box arrives at three, brought up by another room service person who refuses a tip. The name looks familiar. I open it up, and there’s one of the dresses I tried on the first night I was here—my favorite of the dresses. I hold it up in awe.

What kind of sorcery did he do to figure out about this dress? The price tag isn’t on, but I know it cost an arm and a leg. I can’t take it, but I have a feeling that rejecting one of Malcolm’s presents is about as easy as defying the laws of gravity, or making time move backwards, or not petting Smuckers when he trots up wearing his little bow tie.

And I love it. There’s something else in the box—a book on executive coaching. I frown. Does he think I need a book on executive coaching? Has he figured out I don’t know what I’m doing? The cover is a full-length photo of a confident-looking fifty-something man with his hand draped over a podium. The title is “The Executive Power-Confidant.” I flip through it, and a card drops out.

We’ll be having pre-dinner cocktails with a mystery guest and his wife. Consider this your clue.

I have a bad feeling that this mystery guest is Soren Sheffield. The bio inside the back flap calls him “the world’s foremost authority on the art of executive coaching.”

He lives in the Bay Area with his wife.

Gulp.

Drinks with this Soren Sheffield?

It’s one thing to fool Malcolm, who hates executive coaches, but how will I fool the world’s foremost authority on the art of executive coaching?

I grab the phone and try Stella again. No answer. Furiously, I page through the book, familiarize myself with terms.

The phone rings right before I have to start getting ready. “Noelle!” she says, above the murmur of voices in the background. “I teach in five. How are things going with AJ?”

I tell her I’ve been sending him gift cards. “I hate doing it,” I say.

“God, I’m so sorry. He really is such an unbelievable asshole. The product of some really bad judgement on my part. Though, he’s hot. I know that’s not an excuse.”

“It happens,” I say. “But I have bigger problems than AJ.” I sink onto the bed and pick up the book. “Do you know who Soren Sheffield is?”

“Oh, right, the executive-confidant guy? What about him?”

“Does he know people at the Bexley Group?”

“Hardly,” she says. “He’s like, famous. A big cheese.”

“So, he definitely doesnotknow you, right?”

“Not in a million years,” she says.

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