I don’t usually negotiate from a position of weakness, but it’s becoming more and more obvious that the redheaded terrorist is the exception to my every rule.
For one thing, when my investigations turned up the fact that she dropped out of the Fashion Institute of Technology in her sophomore year, losing her scholarship, and went home to Georgia to nurse her mother through cancer treatment, that punched me right in feels.
And then the fact that she refused the bribe I offered her to quit, when it’s obvious she needs the money, has earned my grudging admiration. Every other woman I’ve ever met turns into a slot machine when she sees me, dollar signs appearing in her eyes and an audible “ka-ching” ringing through the air. I know the Hudson handsome genes don’t hurt either, but in Manhattan, that’s barely enough to snag a second look. It’s all those zeros in my bank account that make me the ultimate prize – and leave me cautious about who I get involved with.
Winona’s the first woman in ages who’s shown no interest in how I can help her bottom line and her social status. I pause outside her office, wavering. Would it be so terrible to let her keep her job?
I glance into the office. She stands with her back to me, phone pressed against her ear.
“You’re going on a date with a billionaire?” That’s an older woman’s voice, with a lilting Georgia accent, pitched high with excitement. “How could you not tell me? Is he a good-looking billionaire?”
The hell?
“Mother!” Winona cries out.
“I told your Aunt Loretta too. And all those ladies down at the Kut & Kurl. So they can put that in their pipes and smoke it.”
She bragged about going out on a date with me because I’m rich? A sour feeling bubbles up in my gut. I never would have imagined her doing that. The manic pixie dream girl thing, the cloak of “boho and proud” she wears like a second skin…is it all an act?
“Mom! You really, seriously shouldn’t have. How did you even know?” Winona’s voice is a squawk of dismay. “Isabella ratted me out, didn’t she?”
I take a quiet step into the room, then another, shamelessly eavesdropping. I’m like a little boy, sulking because he found out the tooth fairy isn’t real – and mostly angry at himself because on some level he knew it all along.
“She was just happy for you!”
“Why are you even calling Isabella to check up on me?” Winona gripes.
“I called your house phone and she answered. And interrogating your friends is a mother’s privilege.” Winona’s mother’s voice goes all prim. “And she tells me things that you wouldn’t.”
“She speaks with forked tongue. It’s not a date, it’s a work thing. It’s nothing. He needed an assistant for the evening.”
She didn’t brag about dating a rich dude. I wasn’t wrong about her, and she’s not a gold-digger. The sour bubble pops and my mood lightens immediately. My mouth forms into a triumphant grin without my permission. I seize control of my facial muscles and force myself to look serious again.
“You didn’t answer my question! Is he a handsome billionaire?”
“No, mother, he is not. He’s the ugliest billionaire I’ve ever laid eyes on. Overweight, balding, and he has warts.”
Warts? I stifle a laugh.
“And halitosis,” she continues.
Hey! Low blow. I just brushed my teeth half an hour ago, but I breathe into my hand just to check. Minty fresh.
“Oh, pshaw,” her mother chides her. “He can use Listerine for that. If he’s that rich, you could gently encourage him to visit a dermatologist about those warts, and if he took some long, romantic walks with you that weight would come right off. And it’s just as–”
“I am going to cut you off right there. You were about to tell me that it’s just as easy to fall in love with a warty, toilet-breath, overweight rich man as it is a poor man?”
“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” her mother huffs. “I bet he has a marvelous personality.”
“You’d lose that bet.”
Oh, she’s in for it now.
“I am sure by the end of the evening you’ll find you two have plenty in common,” she says. “He sounds like someone who’d love our little town, too. So when you move back here–”
That sends a jolt of alarm through me. Move back there? Hell no! Of course, that would solve the distraction problem. I could hardly be distracted if she lived hundreds of