Page 73 of The Billionaire's Paradise

“I’ve seen enough to know I don’twantto 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 inhislap.”

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 maître d’ glanced at me and remarked, “Ah, the countess’s companion…sansthe 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.’”