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“Her Instagram is public. Now look again, does she look happy?”
I nod.
“I agree. Here’s another picture. Does she look like she likes her husband?”
This one is her and her husband showing off a revolting looking homemade pizza—but they both seem elated.
“I think so.”
“I agree again. Looks like he’s a dentist out in…Bristol. Okay, one more. What do you think of this?”
The last image she shows me is Constance holding up a green and pink scarf, with a caption underneath that reads, Finally finished something! She’s grinning from ear to ear.
“She looks really proud of her scarf,” I admit flatly before I make eye contact with Julia.
“Right. Constance Ripley is living a tremendously happy life in Bristol with her dentist husband. She knits, she spends time with her kids, she makes pizza, she decorates for Christmas, and—from what I can tell—she has a pet cockatoo.” Julia raises a shoulder. “Seems to me like her life is perfectly fine, even after being the dreaded object of your obsession.”
“Julia—”
She drops her phone on the table and folds her arms, reclining casually. “You can be obsessed with me, August. It’s fine.”
Before she can finish speaking, I start shaking my head. “Julia, I nearly tanked a fifty-billion-dollar deal because I wanted to sleep with you. That isn’t healthy.”
“Even if I had declined, you still would have sold the company,” she replies, shrugging. “We both know it. You pretend to be much more callous than you are. As if you would have deprived Brent and the rest of the people who work for you.”
She’s right. It still doesn’t make what I did okay.
“I basically forced you into the deal because I was borderline obsessed with you. I was creepy as shit about it. The night I met you, I looked you up online and saved maybe thirty or forty pictures of you on my phone—”
“August,” she interjects, “Gus. I get it. You’re obsessed with me. I don’t blame you. I’m intimidatingly beautiful and undoubtedly the best sex you’ll ever have.” Her smirk is frustratingly nonchalant.
“How are you so calm about this?” I demand. “You should be running for the airport right now.”
She shakes her head again. “I don’t scare easily. Plus, the night I met you, I googled the shit out of you too. And after that, I listened to six podcasts. And read three books about you. And read three years’ worth of FundRight’s 10-Ks—”
Holy fuck.
She’s mid-sentence when I can’t take it anymore. I tug her into my arms and kiss her hard, breathlessly, before saying, “That’s the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Kiss-dazed, Julia giggles. “There’s a thin line between admiring and stalking, and I’ve crossed it so many times I may as well be doing double dutch.”
There are so many things I want to say to her while I watch her lean back in her seat and tilt her head thoughtfully. None can capture how much she means to me—how much I want her.
“August, are you still writing a book?” she suddenly asks, as if a lightbulb has just clicked on over her head.
Nod.
Julia waves her hand. “Don’t bother. A business book written by you won’t sell.”
I temper my reaction. If I heard a comment like that from anyone else, heads would roll. “You do know I’m one of the richest men in the world…”
“I wasn’t aware,” she replies, not missing a beat. “But you’re a genius, August. An obsessive genius. You were born that way. You can’t advise anyone to be born a genius.”
“Plenty of geniuses don’t become billionaires,” I remind her.
“Look, I know people,” she explains. “I know what pushes their buttons and fascinates them. Nobody is going to be interested in a virtuoso, MIT valedictorian talking down from his high horse. You need to write a memoir. Plenty of geniuses don’t become billionaires, but you’re not a billionaire simply because you’re smart. You’re a billionaire because you grew up with nothing and decided you wanted everything. You’re a billionaire because a girl broke your heart. Write about it. That’s what people are going to read.”
I don’t know what to say in response. I stare at her silently, perusing the steadfast expression on her face.
