Page 5 of Not My Billionaire


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Before I can leave, she stands up, her tone turning to worry, “I’m sorry for laughing, Mr. Preston. I didn’t think you were serious.”

I turn my head to the side, ready to be done with this conversation and my embarrassment. I really don’t know anything, do I? I really am just some rich guy with no real-world experience. “It’s no problem,” I say. “I just wasn’t aware of the pay scale. Thank you for your time, though. It’s appreciated.”

After rushing away, I walk along the edges of the kitchen, avoiding the busy employees. When I stride out the back door, I notice Hector standing in the hot sun and checking his phone.

“Hey,” I say. The hours passed easier with someone to help, and I feel a sense of camaraderie with him. Knowing that he probably makes very little, I feel horrible about hiding my identity. Especially since I’m the one who determines the wages of the employees to some degree.

He looks up, and a tired smile comes across his face.

“What’s up, man? That was a busy first day. You’ve never worked back-of-house, have you?”

I give an uneasy smile. “Is it that obvious?”

He laughs, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Come on. I know a great burger place up the road. Guaranteed to wipe away the day.”

I should get back to my penthouse, but the idea that Hector wants to be friends with me despite having no clue who I am is refreshing. I’m so used to people scrambling for my attention just because of my name, so knowing that I might have positive qualities outside of that warms me to my core. Plus, I can buy him lunch, a tiny way to make up for how little he probably gets paid.

Instead of leading me to a car, we walk to a small burger joint on the water, the roof made from palm fronds. “How much do you make?” I ask, trying not to sound too rude as we approach the building.

He shrugs. “I got hired on at thirteen. You?”

Thirteen what? Dollars? Per hour? Shame floods through me. “Twelve,” I lie. Is a dollar less per hour reasonable for someone with no experience? He doesn’t seem suspicious of my words, at least.

The hostess seats us quickly despite how crowded the whole place is, and I can’t help but notice the appreciative glance she casts toward Hector.

“Do you know her?” I ask him when she walks away. In lieu of an answer, he looks down at the table and smiles. Just as we sit down, the sky grows dark with clouds, a perfectly normal occurrence for summer in Florida. It rains pretty much daily here. At least we aren’t yet in the thrall of hurricane season, although I don’t plan to be here when that time of year comes around.

“You have got to try the surf n’ turf burger,” he says as if I didn’t just ask him a question. I recognize the avoidance for what it is. He and the hostess like each other. I’m usually good with romantic advice, but with my friends in the past, it’s always been “buy her diamonds” or “take her to Paris.” I have no idea what advice to give someone who washes dishes for a living. I do the math in my head. How does someone even survive off less than thirty thousand dollars a year? It’s inhumane. And my fault.

I tilt my lips down at his recommendation. “I’m allergic to shellfish,” I say, trying to keep my mind off the depressing discovery of the day. Maybe I should have thought harder about coming to an island resort. I now own a very nice place in the Swiss Alps, and there would be far less risk of anaphylactic shock up there.

He nods. “Well, the burgers here are good either way. They cook beef and chicken on a different grill than seafood, so just let the server know and you’ll be okay.”

He seems to know a lot about this place. “I guess you’re a regular,” I comment.

Finally, after staring at the menu, he glances up at me. “I used to work here, but Chéri pays better. Has benefits, too.” He means to tell me that it’s possible to get paid less? I need to do more than just visit the resort. I’m going to have to evaluate my entire company’s structure.

As a swift sheet of rain drops from the sky, thundering along the roof and the water beside us, a server approaches our table, a middle-aged woman with dyed-blonde hair up in a ponytail. Her tanned skin crinkles as she smiles at both of us.

“Hey, Hector. Back already? We miss you back there.” She nods toward the kitchen area, and I suddenly feel very similar to how I had in college. It’s like there’s some sort of built-in camaraderie that I’m not invited into. She glances up to me before Hector can give an answer. “I’m Beth, and I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I get you to drink? We have half-off Margaritas until four.”

I shake my head. “I don’t drink. I’ll just take a coke.”

She writes it down, then turns back to Hector. He orders a glass of water, and mentions my shellfish allergy without me having to say anything. She nods gravely and writes it down on her notepad, even underlining it. I know that the restaurants I own would never have to worry about cross-contamination, but I’m impressed that this beachside shack is as careful about that sort of thing. I don’t mention it out loud, though, as I’m almost sure that would offend in some way.

“So that Alexis seems…intense,” Hector starts. My eyes dart up to his, but he doesn’t seem to have anything more to say. He’s just making casual conversation.

“I think she hates me,” I admit, although it’s not something I would usually divulge. Even Tyler isn’t aware of my deepest insecurity, the one that people might not like me even after getting to know me. In the back of my head, I often wonder if everyone secretly hates me.

Hector shakes his head. “Nah, she’s just got that sort of face.”

I shake my head. “No, really. I broke all the clean appetizer plates this morning when I showed up.”

Hector’s mouth turns into a little O, and I flush and turn my face to the water. The fact that I even did something so clumsy and rude is bad enough, but knowing that it upset Alexis makes it worse.

My eyes catch on something moving in the harbor between parked sailboats, and my heart leaps. I lift a finger and point, not thinking about how childish it is until it’s too late. “Dolphins!” I say.

Hector looks in the direction where I’m pointing, and a slick gray back with a dorsal fin brushes the top of the water in the arching fashion that only a dolphin can evoke. He smiles. “Yeah, they like coming in after the fishermen clean up. I used to watch them after clocking out here.”

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