The Last Eligible Billionaire(57)

“You don’t give C’s.”

“Guilty. I’m an easy A. All I ask for is effort. But I have given six B’s, and it was all about attitude, and I made sure there was nothing going on at home or in their personal lives first, and I finally realized some people are just shits, which makes me sad, so I don’t like to dwell on it. But you, Hayes, are not a shit. You’re a good man who loves his family but wants them to not badger you to death about getting married. They should trust your instincts.”

I snort. They should not trust my instincts. On investments and math? Yes. On people issues and relationships? No. Been there, done that, have the ex-girlfriend married to my mortal enemy to prove it.

Begonia glares at me again as only Begonia can—in that special way that makes me feel like it’s a glare-hug. There’s no heat in it, no matter how much she tries, and I have every last ounce of her focus aimed at me, which should be uncomfortable but isn’t, because it’s Begonia. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and whatever it is you think you’ve failed at in the past, you didn’t fail. You experienced life. You’ll do a great job as CFO, with great people supporting you, and if this is truly not what you’re meant to do, or if it’s not what you want to do, you’ll figure that out and move on to what makes you happy.”

“You believe that.”

“I do. I believe in everyone.”

“But why? And why do you drop everything to help people even when they don’t deserve it?” I can’t let it go. Maybe I want her to tell me I’m awful so that I’ll quit being unexpectedly attracted to her. Maybe I want to find the chink in her armor so that I can prove to myself that she’s not the goddess I’m beginning to suspect she is. Or maybe I don’t understand how one person can believe in so much goodness even after being married to a twatwaffle who clearly tried to destroy her spark. Whatever it is, I can’t let it go.

“What do you get out of it?” I ask. “I know what I got out of today. I know what your students get out of an easy class, and even out of learning to enjoy some form of art. What do you, Begonia Fairchild, get out of doing so much for everyone else?”

“Joy,” she says quietly. “I get joy out of knowing I’ve brightened the world by brightening someone’s world.”

I’ve spent my life serving my family in one way or another. And I know Razzle Dazzle’s entire mission is to entertain people, and thus to also spread their own kind of joy. But I don’t get it. I don’t understand how so much giving can be anything but a drain. “Who makes your world better?”

She peers at me, squints one eyelid, then takes my wine and drains the last of my glass.

I lift a brow.

She tries to scowl. “I really don’t like when you throw my weaknesses in my face.”

I’m so startled that it takes me a moment to find a retort. “Heaven forbid you have a taste of your own medicine.”

No one makes her world better.

Jesus.

I need to make her world better. Someone needs to make her world better.

She points at me with the wine glass. “I can take my medicine just fine. But I’m still working on the right dosage, and I might need to try a different kind of medicine.”

“Are you tipsy?”

“No. I’m just a little sleepy, and I can’t remember what my medicine is supposed to be, besides leaving Chad, which I did, and I’m happier now, but I’m still…missing something.”

If this is Begonia missing something in life, I’ve been missing many, many somethings since I was born. “At least you’re looking for yourself.”

“It’s hard to balance getting enough for yourself when your default is to give to everyone else. Which you have so brutally reminded me.”

“That was brutal?”

“It seared my soul, Hayes. Seared. My. Soul.”

I can’t decide if she’s being serious or joking, but I want to smile, and it’s difficult to keep my expression straight.

She sighs. “I hate disappointing people, and I disappointed my therapist every time I told her that I’d put someone else’s needs above my own since they needed whatever more than I did. That’s the real reason why I’m not in therapy anymore. I failed. I mean, I didn’t. I was projecting. My therapist wasn’t really disappointed in me. She was pretty good. But I felt like I failed. And I hate failing at making myself happy when I’m an expert at making people happy except when it comes to me. I’m a person. I should be able to make me happy too so that my friends don’t have to do it for me. Is there more wine?”

I reach behind the tray to the wine bucket and top her off. “You should be more discerning in picking your friends. Only associate with the ones who appreciate what you do.”

“Is that how you pick friends?”

“Yes.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Unexpectedly well at the moment. I’ve finally found one who doesn’t seem to want me for anything more than my charming company, even if she should have higher standards for herself.”

Those big eyes blink at me, surprise flashing across her face as she starts to point to herself, as if she’s asking if I mean her.

And the fact that I’ve left her with any doubt makes me want to punch myself in the face. “Dog. Down,” I order.