The Last Eligible Billionaire(64)

A tear slips down my cheek. I try to swipe it away fast, so she won’t see, but another follows.

“Okay, I won’t really murder you,” Keisha says. “Stop crying. I hate crying. Crying makes me bleeeaaaaaa, you know?” She sticks her tongue out and shudders.

“I wish he’d been born to a normal, middle-class family outside of the spotlight,” I whisper.

Her face freezes mid-shudder, and when it moves again, she stares at me in horror. “Fuck, B. That’s like, the worst thing you could’ve ever said.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I wish for him too.”





24





From the Text Messages of Hayes and Begonia





Begonia: Good morning, sunshine! Sorry I missed you leaving. How was breakfast with Merriweather and Winnie? Or ignore me. I know you’re busy. We can talk later.

Hayes: It’s two in the afternoon.

Begonia: It’s still morning in Hawaii. P.s. I should not drink wine again tonight.

Hayes: There’s a craft brewery with excellent burgers a short helicopter ride from Sagewood House. Be ready at seven. They have root beer if you’re off alcohol altogether.

Begonia: Fran?oise is making roast duck with some kind of fancy sauce I can’t spell, and fingerling potatoes, and brussels sprouts that she swears will taste like they’re blessed by the gods, and crème br?lée for dessert.

Hayes: Would you rather have duck at home with my family, or a burger with local flavor?

Begonia: She’s going to so much work.

Hayes: She goes to that much work every day. It’s her job. She likes it.

Begonia: But people like to feel appreciated.

Hayes: The people at the craft brewery like to feel appreciated too.

Begonia: So we have to do both. I didn’t pack my Thanksgiving pants. This could get uglier than me on three glasses of wine.

Hayes: You’re oddly adorable on three glasses of wine. I’ve honestly never had a woman in my bedroom confess to wanting to lick the frost off of windows, and it was more charming than I thought it would be. Especially since there wasn’t any frost on the windows. Not in late June.

Begonia: I said I wanted to do that WHEN I WAS SIX, and ONLY on Christmas morning, because MAGIC.

Hayes: You’re thirty-two and you still believe in magic.

Begonia: I believe in making magic.

Hayes: And you’re quite good at it.

Begonia: You didn’t tell me how breakfast went with Merriweather and Winnie.

Hayes: Terrible. They told me what to order, didn’t listen to a word I said, sent the tabloids a picture of my left shoe, and stiffed the server.

Begonia: picture of herself making a horrified face

Hayes: Teasing, Bluebell. They’re perfect, both starting later this week, hence a celebratory dinner OUT instead of in with my nosy family, whom I’ll be relocating back to their own houses posthaste.

Begonia: HAYES RUTHERFORD, YOU MADE ANOTHER JOKE. And it was a bad joke at that. Also, who says POSTHASTE? Seriously?

Hayes: I’ll have to buy you diamonds to make up for the error in my judgment.

Begonia: I demand a poem in recompense. Recompense. Ha. That’s a fancy word. Don’t use it in the poem you write me.

Hayes: I saw an article about you in your hometown paper. You didn’t mention you love clay pottery.

Begonia: That article is ancient. You were googling me!

Hayes: Yes, and enjoying it so very immensely that we nearly burned the house down.

Begonia: I’m sitting with YOUR MOTHER and she just asked me why I suddenly went red as an overripe beet. Warn a girl before you say things like that.

Hayes: Begonia, I’m about to say something highly improper and scandalous and it would horrify my mother and will probably make you want to board a helicopter to get to me as soon as humanly possible.

Begonia: I’m turning my phone off until I’m alone.

Hayes: There’s a delivery truck on the way to the house right now with a pottery wheel, an industrial-size block of clay, and every clay modeling instrument that the internet insisted you needed to spend an afternoon getting filthy. Perhaps you can give me lessons later.

Begonia: selfie of herself with her eyes bugging out and a little shiny

Hayes: You’re enjoying the weather. Looks lovely.

Begonia: I make AWFUL pottery.

Hayes: But you enjoy the process.

Begonia: OMG, the truck is pulling up. You weren’t joking.

Hayes: You didn’t want diamonds or pearls. I had to get creative.

Begonia: I don’t know what to say. Thank you feels so very inadequate.

Hayes: Say you’ll do dinner with me at the brewery.

Begonia: Of course. Yes. Happily. Can I be coated in clay when we go?

Hayes: I would expect nothing less.





25





Begonia



It’s almost nine thirty before Hayes gets home, and I’m about to crawl out of my skin by the time he walks in the door.

I leap off the stairs, where I’m waiting, the minute the door opens, but he hustles in with his head down, phone against his ear. “No, Dexter, if you want approval, you’ll need to send it through the proper channels. I’m not interested in acting as your shortcut. No. No. No. Do I need to say no once more? Call my office and make an appointment if you want to discuss this further. We’re done for now. Good night.”