Page 88 of The Billionaire Mismatch

I’m doing everything I said I wouldn’t do. And while I feel bad about it, I also don’t want to stop. These dates have been different from anything I’ve ever experienced. Even now, lying next to him as his breath drifts in and out of his chest rhythmically, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

And that is a problem.

Enough so that I throw the blanket off and get up. I need some air. And on the way to his balcony, I decide I need some wine. I stop by the wine rack in the kitchen and grab a lonely bottle of Chardonnay. I’m not surprised he likes red; every man seems to prefer red. I actually like it, but it gives me a headache if I have too much. And Chardonnay is drier, so Butter Bay Chard it is.

I pour myself a glass and make my way out to the balcony. The air is warm, and the sky is bright. After a sip, I am able to exhale a decompressive sigh. I need a moment to think. Not that thinking is helping. The more I think about what Sadie would say, the guiltier I feel. The guiltier I feel, the more I try to validate what I’m doing. The more I think about what I am doing, the more I can’t stop thinking about everything I am doing, and then I think about Sadie again and...it's an endless cycle.

I take a hefty sip of my wine and nearly choke when Luca is suddenly next to me.

“Is this a private party?” he asks. He’s wearing nothing but a bedsheet around his waist and holding the bottle of Chardonnay.

“By all means,” I wave my hand, and he sits in one of the Adirondacks next to me. “I couldn’t sleep,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“I was thirsty,” I answer.

“Apparently,” he smirks. “Here…”

I hold up my glass, and he tops it off. Then he pours some into a second glass and places the bottle on the side table.

“It’s nice out here,” I tell him.

“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” he agrees. “Good place to clear your mind.”

“Yeah…” I admit. I am staring into the distance, though I can feel his gaze on me, studying me intently. Eventually I crack, smiling and blushing and turning to look at him.

“You know,” he says. “I was thinking.”

“About what?” I ask, taking a sip. The banter never ends with us. It’s a slow, thick, sweet sarcasm. Like hot honey.

I do like to have my cake and eat it too.

“Why podcasting?” he asks, and it catches me off guard a little. “Why dating podcasts?”

“Interesting topic choice at two thirty in the morning,” I say.

“I’ve told you about my job. Why I’ve committed my life’s work to helping people match. Helping them find love. But you haven’t told me anything.”

“I majored in English and Communication and–”

“No, no,” he says with a grin as he shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. And you know that.”

I open my mouth to answer, and when words don’t come to the surface, I laugh awkwardly. It’s weird. I talk about my job all the time. But something about talking to Luca about it, something about the way he’s asking, it’s different. He’s not going to accept a radio voice answer.

“My parents didn’t love each other,” I answer. Then I wait for a reaction. When his expression doesn’t shift, I keep going. “They were the perfect example of two people who were very wrong for each other but stayed together for the kids,” I say.

“The kids…” he nods.

“My brother,” I say.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” he says.

“There might be a lot of things you don’t know about me,” I tell him, swirling my wine with a sleepy, buzzy smile. “He’s five years older than me. He lives in Charlotte. Runs a brewery.”

“Ambitious,” he says. “That’s a saturated industry. Is he doing well?”

“He is. He took over a place that was shutting down because the owners were shitty people. Created something of his own. Never had to look in the rearview.”