Breaking the Billionaire's Rules

by Annika Martin

“Who’s your little friend out there?” he asks. I still. He saw Antonio and me out there? Was he pretending he didn’t see? “Out where?” “Out where,” he snorts. “The strapping fella in Hugo Boss out by your lunch-cart truck?” I get the sense he’s going for lightness in the strapping fella bit, but it sounds slightly adversarial, too. Is he jealous? Excitement surges through me. I’ve never been excited by jealousy before. “Ah,” I say with faraway eyes. “Antonio.” I’m stoking it now. What’s going on with me? I continue my machinations, reveling in his covetous gaze. I set out his mustards with my usual flourish. He picks up a pen, moves it carelessly around in his fingers. His hands really are large. And warm and soft. “Please,” he says. “What?” “Ah, Antonio,” he echoes, matching my intonation exactly. “He’s a friend. You look at him like a friend. Like one of your galpals.” I give him a sympathetic look. “Poor Max Hilton. I think that’s maybe what you wanted to see.” “I know what I saw.” “That was not a galpal face,” I say. I set a bag of Lay’s plain potato chips next to his sandwich. “What is this?” He picks them up, brow furrowed. “Where’s my array?” “Can’t you just go into your robot memory files and access the image of the last time I displayed them?” He shakes his head. “Ungh.” I go back to the cart and pluck out four bags of chips. I hold them up. “We have Lay’s, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.” “No cheesy puffs today?” “I ran out.” He finally zeroes in on the...