Page 42 of Filthy Rich

“You do?” I raise my eyebrows. “Do you have a dad who’s not always a hero?”

She shrugs. “My dad’s pretty great. But my mom. . .” Her smile’s a little pained, which means she’s being honest. “That’s my ‘complication.’”

I laugh. “Maybe you do get it.” Reluctantly, I pull my hand away from hers and get out. When I reach for my bag, she tries to grab it first. “Ah, ah, ah, Miss ‘Better Way.’ No peeking.”

“Tortilla chips,” she moans. “What could you be making that requires tortilla chips and Pasta Roni?”

“You will just have to wait and see what my culinary skills produce.”

She follows me to the elevator bay, and once the doors open, I swipe my card and hit the button for the penthouse. “Oh, fancy. I’m assuming that ‘P’ means the penthouse?” She arches one eyebrow.

“I didn’t even pick it,” I say. “It’s part of my agreement with my management company. They provide me an apartment as long as I film more than two feature films a year.”

“Oh, you know.” Octavia’s using a British accent. “As long as I remain famous and posh, they provide me with a penthouse.” She breathes on her nails and rubs them on her shirt. “No big deal.”

The elevator doors ding and open.

I roll my eyes. “Get off.”

She shimmies past me and into the hallway outside my apartment. “Wait.” She looks around. “There are two penthouses? I thought the whole point was that you’re the top of the building.”

“Inflation?” I snort. “Not sure what to tell you. José lives there.” I point. “He’s a great guy.”

“Is he famous?” She arches an eyebrow. “What about hotter than you? Maybe I need to meet this José.”

She’s ridiculous. “His parents own a huge shipping company, and as far as I can tell, all he does is party all night and sleep all day.”

“Sounds like he’s just my speed.” She shrugs. “I may wait outside in the hall for a bit.” She leans against the wall.

I grab her wrist and yank her inside, closing the door behind us.

She pivots and snags my bag, ripping it away and opening it. “Tortilla chips, Pasta Roni, and nail clippers?” She scowls. “I’m not eating whatever you’re planning to make with this.”

“Relax.” I laugh. “You’ll love it, I swear.”

“Nail clippers?” Her voice has turned almost shrill. “Please tell me those don’t factor into your dinner plans.”

“They do not,” I say. “They were an impulse buy when I had money left over and a mostly-empty bag.”

“You just buy things without thinking about them?” She shakes her head. “That’s a problem, you know.”

“What are you planning to make?” I tug my bag back and then reach for hers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she says. “If you’re making tortilla chip pasta with ice cream for dessert, I’ll be making myself dinner from what’s in my bag, thanks.”

I laugh. “I just want to know what you’ll be making yourself.”

“Fine.” She sighs. “I’ll show you so you can be jealous while you eat your gross toe-nail-clipping pasta.”

“Eww.” I pull a face. “That was way too graphic. Now I’m not even hungry.”

She laughs, sets her bag on the counter, and pulls out a package of ramen—not the Maruchan kind I grew up eating. She chose something with real Asian characters on it.

“What’s Momofuku?”

“I’m a bit of a ramen nut,” she says. “And it’s, hands down, the best instant ramen you can buy.”

“Well, it’s good to know you’re not scrimping on this, at least.” I can’t help my smile. “A friend of mine told me that in Asia, inviting someone up for ramen’s like inviting someone up to ‘Netflix and Chill.’” I arch one eyebrow. “So I find it interesting you chose that to make for me.”