Page 48 of The Billionaire Mismatch

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but I just grin. Because it’s there, playing in the corners of his lips, flexing in his jawline. “I’m sorry about this,” he says. “We are headed north, away from everything.” “Not everything,” I tell him. “We could go to Salem.”

“Salem?” he echoes. “That’s nearly an hour away.”

I pull my phone out. “And looking at the map, which is a spiderweb of red by the way, it’s an hour to everything. Might as well go to the Sidecar Kitchen.”

“The Sidecar Kitchen,” he echoes skeptically.

“Yes. You haven’t heard of it?” I ask, and Luca shakes his head. “Oh my god. It’s amazing. Mismatched tables and chairs, shaggy rugs and weird cocktails, and all the plates and bowls are handmade pottery from local artists. I’ve been wanting to try it for ages,” I say.

“You haven’t been there?” “Nope,” I tell him, pulling it up on the map.

“And you’re recommending it to me. But you’ve never been,” he states.

“Yes. I found it on Instagram,” I answer. “See?” Then I hold up a photo.

Luca just shakes his head in disbelief. “Do you always find your food on social media?”

“It’s better than finding true love on an app,” I say, and to that, he is silent.

After we are away from the city, the traffic dies down a little, though we are still in for a decent drive.

“I love the outskirts of Boston,” I say. “It’s so peaceful.”

Luca says nothing, and I don’t know which is clenched more tightly, his hands on the steering wheel or his jawline.

“We should listen to music,” I suggest. “What kind of music do you like?”

“I thought you said you liked the outskirts because it’s quiet,” he says.

“I said peaceful. And you’re quiet enough for the whole state of Massachusetts. Now I know you like Hozier, but what else do you like?” I ask.

“How about you pick the first song and I’ll tell you whether or not I hate it,” he suggests.

“Suit yourself,” I shrug, pulling up my music library. “As long as you don’t have too much fun.”

I am staring down at my screen, but I catch his expression out of the corner of my eye, and I swear there is amusement in there somewhere.

The first song I pull up is Landslide.

“No,” he says almost immediately.

“But it’s Fleetwood Mac,” I argue.

“I know who it is. I’m not a fan,” he states.

“Lame,” I mutter.

“I’m just following the aforementioned rules,” he says.

“Fine. How about this?” I ask, switching to Alanis Morrisette.

“Is your entire music library filled with feminists?” he asks.

“No…only half,” I say.

“Well, how about we try the other half,” he says, and it’s obviously not a suggestion. It’s also kind of funny. He might be a no-nonsense man, but there is a humor under all those frown lines. It’s a dry humor. Second only to the Sahara. But it’s there. And it’s fun dragging it to the surface of his stubborn personality.

I wordlessly play Hall & Oates and wait for the reaction. This time he doesn’t say anything. He simply grabs his phone and changes the song himself.