Page 31 of The Billionaire’s Paradise (My Billionaire #4)

Pregnancy, it turned out, came with homework. Not just for Leilani—but for us.

There were vitamins to pick up. Books to read.

Doctor’s appointments to coordinate, birth plans to review, maternity leggings to praise without sounding condescending.

Cal, of course, approached it all like a project launch.

He and Rashida had spreadsheets, task lists, backup lists for the task lists.

He bookmarked six different articles on prenatal nutrition and bought a pregnancy pillow roughly the size of a jet ski.

I was in charge of snacks. Emotional snacks. Emergency snacks. Snacks that could be thrown across the room without injury. I was also in charge of affirmations, again without sounding condescending.

You are strong.

You are radiant.

You are growing a human being, and if you want to punch someone in the throat today, that is valid.

We started sending Leilani silly check-in texts every morning—

Good morning, goddess of gestation .

Did you take your folate today, queen?

Do you want pizza or ice cream with pickles? We can deliver both.

She responded with photos she uploaded—puffy feet in fluffy slippers, pineapple smoothies, and a growing collection of maternity T-shirts that said things like Someone In Here Wants Fish Tacos and I Grew An Organ Today, What Did You Do?

Tutu took her to yoga. Kimo rubbed her feet with something made of volcanic ash and eucalyptus. Even Mrs. Mulroney tried to knit a belly band before it mutated into what looked like a pink woolen restraining device for a rottweiler.

In the middle of it all, I noticed Cal had been trying his best not to bring up work… or Hal… until one morning—

“I’ve got an idea, and you might not like it but hear me out,” he said, pouring coffee and speaking quickly like he needed the words out.

“That sentence was practically one long word. Why are you acting anxious?”

“Because you’re gonna say no and I need you to say yes.”

“Yes, to what?”

“Lunch. With Hal. Just the three of us.”

I blinked. “Why would I ever want to have lunch with Hal?”

“Because I need to keep working on this deal, but I don’t want you to feel sidelined again. And the only way to do that is to bust the myth, break the spell, make you see there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Are you sure you’re not the one under a spell?”

“Matt, just hear me out.”

“I heard you already. And I’m saying, in what universe would I want to have lunch with Hal?” I asked.

“And I’m saying if you come to lunch, you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about. And there’s certainly nothing to be jealous of.”

“Pah-lease! Why would I be jealous of Hal? The guy’s a jerk.”

“Matt, you don’t even know him. ”

“I’ve seen enough to know I don’t want to know him.”

“Fine. Don’t come to lunch. But if you say no to this, you forfeit any right to complain about me being absent or choosing Hal over you.

No more passive-aggressive sighs, no more pointed questions about my calendar.

And definitely no more playing dress-ups with Miss Marple out there.

” He pointed outside to Mrs. Mulroney trying to shoo away a bee and falling backwards into a hammock. Deal?”

I glared at him. “Did you just try to preemptively revoke my right to be petty?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “I’m trying to run a billion-dollar deal and also grow a baby with my husband. I can’t keep playing emotional whack-a-mole with every raised eyebrow.”

I opened my mouth to respond. Closed it. Thought about it. Opened it again purely for effect, then reached for my coffee.

I took a slow sip, staring at him over the rim of the mug. “If I come, and he says one thing—one thing that makes me question your moral compass—I will knock over a wine glass and make sure it lands in his lap.”

Cal smiled. “See? I knew you’d be mature about this.”

At first I wasn’t sure whether Cal had booked the yacht club without thinking, or whether he was intentionally trying to restaurant-shame me after the last time I was there, but when the ma?tre d’ glanced at me and remarked, “Ah, the countess’s companion…

sans the fake mustache,” I had a fair idea Cal knew exactly what he was doing.

We were shown to a table overlooking the marina and I immediately used my perfectly pressed linen napkin to dab the stress from my forehead.

Cal looked polished and patient.

I just looked hot and suspicious .

Hal arrived ten minutes late wearing aviators, designer loafers, and a polo shirt so blindingly white I saw shooting stars for the next several minutes.

He didn’t shake my hand. Just nodded at me like I was optional.

“Well,” he said, sliding into the seat across from us. “Glad we could finally make this happen.”

I forced a smile, instantly annoyed at the insinuation that Cal had discussed this with him on past occasions, like I was a problem that needed solving or a tax exemption that needed to be signed off on.

“Hal,” I said by way of greeting, already wishing I had a glass of wine to knock over.

Cal launched straight into small talk—weather, surf reports, how the club had recently updated their landscaping to be “more sustainable,” which apparently meant fewer ferns and more gravel.

I let them go back and forth for a minute, pretending to study the menu while mentally ranking all the ways this could go wrong.

Hal flagged down the waiter with two fingers, didn’t look at the man once, and said, “We’ll take a bottle of your finest sauvignon blanc. Something from New Zealand.”

“I’m sure they have a wine list you could look at,” I muttered, not looking up.

He ignored me and waved the waiter away, but not without adding, “And make sure it’s chilled.”

There was a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that made you want to fake a phone call or set fire to your napkin.

Cal tried to fill it.

“So… Hal used to work in Singapore,” he offered, brightly. “Right? You lived there for what, three years?”

“Five,” Hal said. “But who’s counting.”

“Matt loves travel,” Cal said, turning to me.

“Is that right? Ever been to Singapore? ”

“No, actually,” I answered.

“But you must love the rest of south-east Asia, right?”

“I’m sure I will. One day.”

Hal laughed, then said, “ Có l? b?n ch? thích mo v? chuy?n du l?ch . That’s Vietnamese for ‘Perhaps you just enjoy dreaming about travel.’”

The wine arrived and it took all the strength I had not to snatch the bottle off the waiter and donk Hal over the head with it.

Cal, clearly sensing my perilous state, squeezed my knee under the table. He laughed and quickly changed the subject. “Matt’s a writer. He writes the most beautiful novels. He’s got a true gift, you know.”

“Is that so,” Hal said, sitting back as though challenging me to impress him. “So, you’re the next Ernest Hemingway, then?”

The wine was poured and I downed half the glass in one gulp. “Hemingway spent more time brawling than he did writing. Although there are days I could be tempting to take a leaf out of his book.”

I bunched up my fist in my lap.

Cal saw and his hand went from my knee to my fist to hold it in place.

Oblivious to the fact that I was seconds away from bopping him in his spray-tanned face, Hal asked, “So what kind of books do you write?”

I was ready to shut down the entire subject—not at all comfortable telling Hal about my life, and certainly not in need of his approval—when Cal answered, “Romance. Matt writes romance novels.”

There was a pause.

Then the smile spread across Hal’s face.

And then came a bellow of laughter so loud it echoed through the whole restaurant.

“Romance novels? Did you say… romance no vels?” He laughed even harder.

“You mean those books with shirtless lumberjacks and breathless virgins on the covers? I didn’t realize people actually read those. Are they even considered real books?”

I felt my spine tighten like a drawbridge getting ready to close on a trespasser.

Hal glanced at Cal like he was in on the joke, but Cal simply responded with—“Yes, they’re considered real books. And Matt’s a great writer.”

“I’m sure he is. Everyone needs a hobby, right? Hell, I once tried baking sourdough during lockdown. Didn’t make me a chef, just meant I had too much time on my hands. I eventually took it as a sign that I needed to be doing something meaningful with my life.”

Cal opened his mouth—probably to defend me—but I cut in first.

“Actually,” I said calmly, setting down my glass. “I am doing something meaningful with my life. I write about connection. Vulnerability. People finding strength through intimacy, not ego. Which is probably why it’s foreign to you.”

Hal blinked.

“Oh, and for the record?” I added. “Romance novels have sparked more emotional intelligence than any boardroom in America ever did. It takes courage to write about hearts. Anyone can hide behind numbers.”

Cal coughed loudly, possibly to disguise the sound of his soul leaving his body.

Hal smiled, the kind of tight-lipped smirk men wear when they're losing control of the room but haven’t accepted it yet. “Well, hey. Whatever floats your boat, Hemingway. Speaking of which… Cal, should we get down to business and look at the plans for the superyacht marina?”

He reached into his leather folder and pulled out a sheaf of documents, passing them to Cal and adjusting his body language to make it clear he didn’t want to address me for the remainder of the lunch.

Which was fine by me.

Cal flipped open the file. I leaned over just enough to see a few bolded words: Makai Tract, Phase One. Superyacht Marina Feasibility Draft.

“Now, this is early -stage,” Hal said, pointing at a page like he was teaching a particularly dense child.

“We’re still waiting on environmental clearance and shoreline access sign-off, but the concept’s solid.

We’ve carved out room for a boardwalk, some boutique retail, and even a cultural center for the locals. You know. Keep the natives happy.”

My head snapped up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

“Excuse me?” I said.