The Last Eligible Billionaire(27)

“In short, it makes that happen,” I finish on a sigh.

“Back off, lady,” Begonia calls. “This one’s mine.”

The elderly woman’s brown face scrunches in irritation. “Well, aren’t you an impertinent little twit. I was just being friendly to a neighbor I’ve never met.”

Begonia grins. “Sorry. I’m terribly jealous. I thought you wanted him for his butt in these jeans.”

Martina fans her face. “If I did want him, and I’m not saying I do, but if I did, could you blame me? I might be old, but I’m not blind.”

“Keep being fabulous and putting yourself out there.” Begonia flashes her a thumbs-up, then smacks my ass, which has the unfortunate effect of making me picture her naked breasts, and that is not nearly as unappealing as it was yesterday when they were surprise naked breasts. “We need to get going. Hayes is late for work, and if he doesn’t work, he can’t afford to treat me to a lobster dinner on a sunset cruise.”

Begonia winks.

The old lady titters. “Oh, you’re a cheeky one. A billionaire not affording a lobster dinner. Ha! Come say hi at the flower shop, Hayes. Your girlfriend deserves it. I like her.”

“How the devil do you do that?” I mutter to Begonia as she waves at the woman and tugs my hand to get us moving again.

“Do what?”

“Make friends with anything that moves.”

“All people just want to be accepted for who they are. It’s not that hard to tell someone they have a nice haircut or a great smile or excellent taste in butts.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It brings me so much joy to see people happy. Way worth the effort.”

“All people?”

“I don’t like to think about people who don’t deserve to be happy, which means I basically refuse to acknowledge they exist, unless I have to, like when I think they’re a tuxedo-clad murderer bursting into my bathroom, so in my little world, yes. All people.”

I cannot fathom looking at every person I come into contact with as someone who deserves to be happy. Not when so many of them give me headaches.

But Begonia—Begonia took my headache away.

I could argue she gave me a scalp massage and lit her lavender incense because it makes her life easier if I’m more agreeable, or because if I was unconscious, she could’ve found more Maurice Bellitano originals for her dog to chew on, or that she was planning to copy my driver’s license to try to steal my identity and bank accounts, but between her saucy grin, her background check, and her utter horror at what her dog did to the carving of my grandfather, I can’t find it inside of me to believe anything she’s done since I found her in my house yesterday has been a purely selfish act.

Sorcery with that head rub, possibly. Selfishness, no.

She’s had ample opportunity to rob me blind if that was her intent, and if she’s looking for a hair sample for god only knows what reason, she could’ve waited until I got out of the shower and not had to touch me in the meantime.

And for as much as I don’t trust her, I don’t believe she’d be snapping pictures of me in my sleep to sell to the tabloids or anyone else.

“Your mom said you just took over as the Chief Financial Officer for Razzle Dazzle—does that mean long hours and endless meetings? And can you really do it from here with limited cell service?”

“We’ll go to Paris this weekend,” I announce.

She stops. “What?”

“You’ve never seen Musée Marmottan Monet. A weekend trip to Paris for you to see Monet’s waterlilies is pocket change to me, and an impromptu date in Europe will solidify the rumors that I am not, in fact, eligible.”

She’s staring at me like I’ve kicked her dog. “But—but I haven’t earned it yet.”

“You—pardon?”

“It’s an incredibly generous offer. I don’t mean to imply I don’t appreciate it. I do. That’s so thoughtful and kind, but while it’s pocket change to you, to me, it’s the entire experience of saving and anticipating and savoring the idea. Like Christmas morning. Do you live for those five minutes when you’re tearing through the wrapping paper, or do you live for the months from the minute you start making your wish list and talking to your friends about what you’re hoping to get? And like, dreaming about the pony you’ll find in the backyard, even knowing that your dad declared bankruptcy this year and can’t afford a pony. Plus knowing that your mom and stepdad would never get you anything that would make poop that has to be cleaned. But you spend all those months dreaming and waiting anyway until that moment when you see the tree and the presents under it, and it’s like, the joy of the possible?”

She’s speaking English, and I think I follow what she’s saying, but I can’t at all comprehend why she’d say no. “You would rather anticipate seeing your favorite paintings than actually see your favorite paintings?”

Her glowing smile slowly drops off her face. “Never mind. You’re right. We should go to Paris. It’ll keep up appearances. Marshmallow! Sweetie, don’t eat the rock. Where did—oh. Yes. Okay, good boy. Good boy helping push the bike back to the house.”

The dog’s latched onto the bike’s other handlebar and is attempting to walk on its back legs on the bicycle’s other side, helping push it along.