Page 31 of The Billionaire Mismatch

“I didn’t. But you were a good kisser, so I figured, what the hell?” Her smile widens as she chews, and I bite back the threat of a smirk.

Then I dust off my hands and dab my mouth with my napkin, leaning back in my chair with my drink. “So you worked at a wine bar,” I say, doing a conversational U-turn.

“In college,” she reiterated.

“And what did you say you do now?” I ask.

“Communications,” she answers. “Boring things really.”

“Boring?” I ask with an arched eyebrow.

“Yeah,” she answers as she spoons some brie on a crostini and tops it with a raspberry habanero compote. Spicy and sweet.

“If it’s boring, why do you do it?” I ask.

“Because I’m told I’m good at it,” she answers.

“Are you?” I ask, and she looks up at me.

“Am I what?”

“Don’t phrase it that way,” I correct her. “Don’t say you’re told you’re good at it. Tell me you are good at it.”

Olivia studies me and picks up her drink, taking a sip before answering. “I am good at it. I’m very good at it. I have over five hundred thousand followers.”

“Five hundred thousand,” I echo. “Impressive number.”

Olivia snorts and looks back at the board.

“I mean it,” I say. “You should be proud of five hundred thousand.”

“I don’t know,” she says with a little snark in her tone. “It’s not five hundred million…”

“Well, look at you, doing your homework before class,” I say.

“I didn’t really have to,” she says, licking compote off her finger. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“Do they…” I say. “Is that why you swiped right? Because you knew who I was and that if you played your cards right, you’d get bragging rights? For your communications job?”

“No, I swiped right for the free sushi and charcuterie,” she says flatly, and I almost show the hint of a smile.

She laughs, telling me she saw it. I take a sip of my drink, telling her it wasn’t that funny.

Or cute.

“Your hair,” she says, and my eyes flash up to her again.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your hair. It’s the color of dark honey. Or bourbon. But flecked with–”

“Don’t say it,” I cut her off, and her grin spreads.

“Silver,” she goes for the less offensive hue that describes my hair color. “And your eyes.”

“My hair and my eyes,” I echo.

“Is something wrong with that?” she asks.