Page 105 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“I told you to dress up because I wanted to take you to dinner,” he says.

“At the restaurant inside the House of Blues?” I ask.

“That would appear to be where we are,” he says with a snide smirk.

“We’re having dinner at the House of Blues,” I beam, holding his hand as we make our way to the entrance.

“We are,” he says. “And I figured while we are here we might as well go to a concert too…”

And with that, I come to a complete stop. “Wait. A concert?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Morgan Wade is the artist’s name.”

“Morgan Wade?” I practically sing.

“Do you know her?”

“I saw her open for Joan Jett and the Black Hearts!” I say, twirling around.

“You saw Joan Jett in concert?” he asks.

“And the Black Hearts!” I sing again. “She’s amazing. Morgan, I mean. Well, Joan is amazing too, obviously. But Morgan is like Country but a little more soulful. And she’s so cute and humble and…how did you know?” I ask, and he just stares at me, continuing to lead me inside.

“How did I know what?” he asks.

“How did you know that I loved her?”

“I didn’t,” he says.

“Okay, so how did you know I’ve always wanted to go to the House of Blues?” I ask as we are led to a table.

“Lucky guess?” Morgan asks as he pulls out my chair for me. I think about that and honestly, it feels a little fishy.

“You’ve been making a lot of lucky guesses recently,” I say.

“Have I?” he asks.

I just stare at him before rattling off, “They’re all bucket list items for me. The fish market. The waterfall. The swim suit. The turtles. The…” I stop and lower my voice, mouthing the word. “Sex…”

“You have sex listed on your bucket list?” he asks just as the waiter comes up. Luckily, she’s a tattooed girl with winged eyeliner and hot pink hair, and she seems entertained by the out of context conversation.

I smile awkwardly, and we order our drinks and an appetizer before going on.

“Sex under the stars,” I whisper. “Sex outside.”

“We did that?” he asks, and I throw a crumpled up straw wrapper at him.

“Listen,” he chuckles. “Maybe your bucket list was on your Insta account or something.”

“My Insta account?” I ask.