Page 70 of Trailer Park Billionaire
She gives me two finger guns, which I answer by pointing the dagger at her. My boss laughs and then bids me goodbye.
At this point, I’m more than ready to get out of here. So I gather my things, return the dagger to the archives, and head out of the museum to where Ben is already waiting. I can’t help but smile when I see him. Ben, with that kind of chaotic warmth that sets fire to your caution signs. He’s leaning against the RV, a smirk blooming on his face when he sees me approach.
“So you missed me, huh?” he asks, and makes that smile on my face disappear in an instant.
Shit. Did I actually smile at him just now?
“No need to deny it, Panda,” he says, opening the door for me. “I’m happy to see you too.”
Yeah.
That’s not good.
My entire face is turning red, like the flushed cheeks of a Renaissance cherub.
Hastily, I jump inside the car and stare straight ahead.
I don’t smile.
I definitely don’t smile at men.
We drive in silence for a while until I can’t hold it in any longer. “Just to be clear, and so you don’t get any wrong ideas—I did not miss you.”
Ben hums, his tone thick with disbelief, as if to say,‘Sure, whatever you say’.
“I mean it,” I stress, maybe a little too emphatically. “I didn’t even have any time to miss anyone. I was busy thinking about the museum's budget constraints and the devastating state of arts funding. Also, about daggers from the Civil War.”
“Naturally.” Ben nods, accelerating gently. “And I was thinking about filing my taxes on time.”
I snort. “You're a criminal. You probably don’t even do taxes.”
“Exactly,” he retorts with a wink, then lapses back into silence.
Which I appreciate. I should probably just not open my mouth. Not to talk, definitely not to smile.
Once we get to the apartment, Ben opens the door for me. When I step inside, it takes me a second to process what I’m seeing. The giant pinboard on wheels wasn’t there when I left this morning, and now it’s covered in an impressive arrangement of notes, color-coded schedules, and interconnected strings—as if he’s solving a murder, or robbing a bank. At the top, in bold capital letters, it says: Belena’s Routine.
“Belena’s routine?” I say with a frown.
“Ournew routine,” Ben explains, clearly proud of that portmanteau. “I tried to incorporate everything you mentioned last night: early to bed, early to rise, and all. We might need to be flexible once in a while, but this,” he knocks against the pinboard, nearly toppling it, “has solid bones.”
I look at the board, over to Ben, and back to the board. The gesture disarms me, makes my walls wobble just a little.
“You did all this?” I ask, still slightly suspicious.
“I figured if it’s important to you, then it’s important to… the success of this operation.”
I hate it.
Well, I don’t hate it. It’s a good idea.
I just hate that he came up with it and went through all the trouble.
I hate that he’s being thoughtful and cute and,I look back at Ben,stupidly symmetrical like a work of art that somehow learned to breathe… and smirk.
I need to focus on this job we’re doing, not on the job I’m thinking about doing when glancing at the outlines on his pants.
This job is the only way to deal with the debt, with these guys.
