Page 16 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

Yes, that was a dick move. Even I could see that.

Without a word, I took her hand and led her across the street to a diner.

“What are we doing?” she asked. “This is stupid. Just take me home.”

“No.” I pulled open the door and gestured for her to go inside. She sighed and walked in. I followed behind her and froze. I could honestly say I had never been in such a place.

She looked around as if she belonged, like she was finally comfortable for the first time since she and I met. I, on the other hand, felt like a fish out of water. The place was clean but simple—chrome stools, laminated menus, the smell of fresh coffee and grease hanging in the air.

It was all very kitsch.

We slid onto two stools at the counter. I tried to hide my discomfort as my eyes took in the sight. Kaira turned over a white mug.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“If you want coffee, turn over the cup.”

I hesitated but flipped my cup as well, signaling to the waitress bustling about that we were ready for service. She came over with a smile, pouring out steaming coffee into our cups without asking.

“You planning on ordering food, or just here for the coffee?” she asked, tucking her order pad into her apron.

“Food. I think.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat but I was curious what they offered.

The waitress handed us each a menu.

“Be back in a few,” the waitress said and hurried away.

“This better?” I asked, watching her as she scanned the menu.

“Much,” she said with a small smile.

The sight of that smile caught me off guard. She looked different here. Comfortable. Natural. She had been very nervous and uncomfortable most of the night. But here, she looked like she could finally breathe.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “I happened to like my meal.”

“No one’s forcing you.”

“What are you going to order?”

“Apple pie. A la mode.”

“A la what?”

“Ice cream on the side. It’s one of my favorite late-night treats. Coffee and ice cream.”

I had no idea but when in Rome.

Kaira ordered and I asked for the same. The waitress walked away and returned a few minutes later. I tried not to look put off by the simple serving of pie on a plate with a scoop of ice cream.

The coffee tasted like burnt tar, but whatever. I could prove I wasn’t a snob. I could eat regular people food. My personal physician was on-call twenty-four seven. I took a bite and was pleasantly surprised.

It reminded me of a custard with poached pears I had in Paris. She and I weren’t so different.

I decided to try and make conversation. “So, Kaira, what do you do when you’re not sneezing your way into six-figure auctions?”

She stiffened but didn’t look up. “We don’t have to do this.”

“What? Sit here in seething silence? I was trying to move past it.”