Free Billionaire With a Twist by Lila Monroe

clothing. I could barely enjoy the
succulent pork as I fretted silently about keeping the sauce from
smearing all over my face or dripping onto my pants. A slight drip at
the corner of Hunter’s mouth reminded me forcefully of that
almost-kiss, and I nearly dropped my pork chop.
    When I finally finished, somehow
miraculously still mostly clean, I wiped my fingers for the last time
on the cloth napkin and reached for the crystal decanter of ice
water.
    Hunter reached for it at the same time.
    Our fingers brushed.
    We both pulled away as if we had
received an electric shock.
    “Sorry,” Hunter said.
    “No, I’m sorry,” I
said, “you go ahead.”
    “No, you were reaching first.”
    “No, I insist.”
    He nudged the decanter toward me. I
poured myself a glass of water.
    Then he poured himself a glass of
water.
    We drank our water in silence, not
looking at each other.
    Okay, this was ridiculous. So we’d
sort of slept together and then sort of maybe almost kissed. We were
adults! Professional adults! We could handle this. We could be
pleasant. We could make light conversation and act like we weren’t
two lovesick teens who’d broken up right before prom.
    Right?
    “The weather’s lovely,”
I said. Sheesh, had I really been reduced to that banality?
    “Yes,” he said, still not
looking at me. A pause. “But it might rain later.”
    “Oh?”
    “That’s what the weather
channel said.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yeah.”
    And then more silence.
    This was all my fault. I should have
handled it better when he went for the kiss. We should have had a
real talk about our past when he first went for my pitch. I never
should have slept with a handsome stranger in the first place—
    But that was the way the cookie
crumbled. If I kept counting my regrets, I’d end up moving back
home and hiding under the bed while my mother derided all my life
choices.
    I was going to make some goddamn
fucking pleasant conversation with this man if it killed me.
    “The pork was delicious,” I
said, trying to sound as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
“How long have you had this cook?”
    “Five years.”
    I waited for him to elaborate, but he
didn’t.
    Goddamnit, Hunter Knox, work with me
here!
    “Your outfit’s nice,”
I blurted in desperation before my brain could catch up to my mouth
and yell, not professional!
    He started slightly in his seat, his
eyes darting up to meet mine for just a second. “Ah. Thank
you?”
    It was a tiny crack in his stony
demeanor, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was
looking away from me again, as if I didn’t exist, as if he
could barely bring himself to care that I was there with him, trying
to forge a solid working relationship.
    And the silence descended once again,
like a dark curtain cutting off the connection between us.
    I cast around for some neutral topic.
What said professional, committed, but not interested? And then I
realized what did, and I could have kicked myself for not seeing it
sooner.
    Work. Work was professional.
    In my defense, if his shirt had been a
size larger I wouldn’t have been so addled by lust that it
would take a whole half hour to come up with that idea.
    After all, I knew he liked my ideas,
didn’t I? He’d chosen me, and he’d flown me all the
way out here. He was paying money for my ideas. He’d have to engage.
    “So, I’ve found all sorts
of interesting information in the library archives,” I chirped.
“I’m only up to the 1920s, of course, and the company
stance on various issues during the sixties will be absolutely
crucial to capturing the typically more liberal young adult
population without alienating the senior demographic, but—”
    “This is dinner, not a business
meeting.” Hunter’s voice was a sharp ice spear as it
slashed across mine, cutting me off. “And to tell the truth,
I’m not really interested.”
    I gaped, then fumed. I could feel steam
started to build up, threatening to leak out my ears like an