Page 37 of The Billionaire Mismatch

“It’s a podcast,” I correct him. “But yeah. You’re right. This label people keep plastering on me that I’m some kind of womanizer is bullshit. Every woman I go out with knows exactly where I stand. That I’m not looking for anything serious. It’s not like I’m the only man out there casually dating women for a little distraction,” I state.

“And it’s also not like the women you take out aren’t getting first-class treatment,” Matt adds. “I mean, damn, you spend more on one date than most men spend on a month’s worth of dates.”

“Exactly,” I say. “I don’t like people making assumptions about me.”

“So, what’s the next step?” he asks.

“I texted her. For another date,” I answer, and Matt grins again.

“Nice. You’re a dog, you know that?”

But I’m not so sure about that. If anything, I feel like that’s the point I’m trying to prove. Sure, I am playing a game, but only because she started it. Honestly, all of this is a little morally gray for me. I don’t lie. I don’t fuck around. I’m black and white with people. I’m also black and white on the subject of relationships. It’s why I believe that lasting relationships need calculation. Compatibility through research, not chemistry. Chemistry is bullshit. It’s women gushing over ideals they were taught through princess movies and men listening to their dicks instead of their brains. No, that’s not how it works. Because all the surface feelings in the world can’t be trusted if the person iswrong for you. That’s when people lie, when they pretend, when they cheat.

Is that romantic? No. Is it what people want to hear? Of course not. But it’s facts. Facts you can learn the hard way through getting your heart broken, or facts you can learn through personalized logistics.

As we continue drinking our beers, Matt strikes up a conversation with a blonde at the next table who likes his tie. I doubt it’s the time she likes. She likes his smile, but she’s not going to say that. And he tells her he likes her necklace when really he’s just using it as an excuse to stare at her tits.

It’s annoying. But it gives me time to think. While I know I need to follow through on this whole Olivia thing (I always follow through) I also have an uneasy feeling. I know what she does for a living. But I want to see if she’ll admit it. If I am going to play along with this, I want to know what I’m getting myself into. What her motives really are. Who Olivia Ramone really is.

Chapter 12

Olivia

Unmatched Dating 101- Rule:#5: Basic effort is not the bar; it’s the bare minimum. I’m talking about the ability to communicate, meeting your needs, chivalry (opening doors, treating you like a lady even if you’re an independent woman). Bonus tidbit…communication is not a love language. It’s a basic human characteristic required for any healthy relationship.

All of that said, it’s becoming increasingly hard to focus on the task at hand when I walk out of my apartment for date number three. Luca is standing next to his car, passenger door open, and a single rose in hand. Yellow.

“Is that for me?” I ask with a smile as I make my way down the steps in heels, calves on fire. It’s been a long time since I’ve worn heels this much. I am more of a strappy sandals kind of girl. But alas…this is the way when you’re in the dating scene.

“No, I just like smelling roses while I’m driving,” he says flatly, and I give him a look.

“Of course it’s for you,” he says as I stop in front of him. And I swear I can see his face shift as the scent of my jasmine perfume swirls around him. Men are suckers for jasmine, I’ve found.

“I love yellow,” I say as I take it from him.

“I know,” he says, holding the door open for me.

My eyes flash up to him. “Oh, really?”

“You wear it a lot,” he says. Then his expression shifts, and he stiffens. But I just smirk up at him.

“Has someone been snooping around social media?” I ask as I get in the car.

“Maybe,” he says.

“Tsk, tsk,” I say as he closes the door.

We drive mostly in silence, other than music softly playing. His car is pristine, which doesn’t surprise me at all, and smells faintly of cedar and citrus. He’s wearing blue, a color I haven’t seen him in yet. It’s the same hue as his eyes, making it very difficult to keep my eyes off him.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” he says. His tone is as dry as usual, but there’s a hint of something else in there.

This man is nearly impossible to decipher. He truly is grumpy as hell, stuffy and blocked off. But behind those walls, I get the sense that there’s something else. I just don’t know what.

And you’ll probably never find out because you’re not actually dating him…

“What song is this?” I ask in an attempt to shut my inner voice up.