“Who says I don’t have several?”
“Boat maintenance is stupid expensive, even for vessels on the smaller side. I wouldn’t mind having jet skis to bring to the lake, though. Are youjet skirich?”
“Jet skis are comparable in price to many low- and mid-tier boat options.”
Wow.
Only a rich person would know that, I’m sure. Or…is that justboyknowledge? At one point or another, most boys probably look up the cost ofboatsandmotorcyclesandtrucks. Don’t they?
I’m getting stuck in assumptions again; I need proof.
So I text my brother.
Me:How much does a boat cost?
A minute passes, and he sends me a web browser screenshot with the answer.
Right. I forgot. My brother is useless. He’s a humble jack of all trades, and he will inevitably find the easiest and quickest solution to anything, especially questions I could feasibly google myself.
Blinking, I glance upward and see the hat I’m wearing. The hat Dominic bought me to go with that fancyRalph Laurendress.
A couple hundred dollars…isn’t proof of anything.
I emptied my savings on a casket with very little prompting, and I’m not anywhere close to wealthy. Anyone with a credit card could manage what he has thus far. Besides, what if heiswealthy? That would complicate things, because why in the world would someone rich want or have anything to do with me? How would our paths have crossed?
Rubbing my face, I sag.
“Exhausting yourself yet?” he asks.
I mutter, “Being a detective is harder when I’m not being controlled by an all-knowing author and being led through a handful of clues toward the correct solutions…”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” He leaves the kitchen and offers me a slip of warm sugar-and-cinnamon-coated dough. “Snack?”
My brow arches. “Are you…baking something?”
He nibbles his own piece, murmuring around it, “Such a thing might be deduced.”
“What are you baking?”
“Dragon fruit pie.”
I blink. “Dragon…fruit…pie?”
“With an assortment of other berries.” He finishes his scrap of crust trimmings. “It’s a verysummertaste. For my very summer girl.” He blips the floppy rim of my sun hat and regards me coolly. “I wonder…” His gaze trails to my neck. “…if you taste like summer, too.”
Heat scores my cheeks as I stuff the treat in my mouth, grab a note card, and scribbleRICHonto it before slapping it to my corkboard with a pin. “Ain’t no middle classer buyingdragon fruitfor apie,” I state—basically Sherlock Holmes.
He chokes back a laugh. “Well. Of all the things to out me.”
My attention piques. “Is that a confirmation?”
“I wonder.”
“If you’re rich, are you going to start introducing obnoxious displays of wealth into this story?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.Maybeif you give me a corrected binder, that hasn’t been tampered with, I’ll consider whatever it says and make it happen.”
A…corrected binder? Full of all my actual heart’s desires? To give to a man who has proven more than pliable where it concerns the fulfillment of my wishes?
