My Grumpy Billionaire

I nod. “My babies.” Which I adore to death. Todd doesn’t care for them. Told me he finds “tailless rats” gross and suggested I might as well have cockroaches for pets. As if!

Dan shakes his head. “Barely the size of two of my fingers.” He holds out a couple of fingers, each of which is as thick as a D battery.

“They’re the smallest breed. I got custody.” Todd claimed he wanted them, but it was just to spite me. All I had to do to thwart him was act like that was exactly what I wanted to see happen.

“Good for you.” Dan beams and puts a finger up to the cage, which G-Spot comes over to sniff. “These little critters need love.” His tone says, Your ex isn’t capable.

I can’t argue. The only reason I didn’t see through Todd immediately was that I met him soon after the devastating loss of Grandma three years ago. I wasn’t myself. But now my judgment is one hundred percent again. And I know that, no matter how hard I try, he’s never going to be the kind of family I long for.

The elevator takes me up toward the twentieth—and top—floor. The mirrored doors show my reflection, and I use the ride to make sure I look as powerful and free as I feel. My hair in a perfect French twist—check. Makeup—check. A sleeveless magenta dress—check. The employee badge proudly proclaiming me as the CEO of Silicone Dream—check. Power stilettos in nude—check. My favorite pearl earrings and necklace from my late mother—check.

I smile. Damn, I look good.

When the elevator reaches my floor, I walk out, a spring in my step. Even the corporate air feels freer.

Of course, Silicone Dream isn’t your typical company. You can’t take yourself too seriously if you make sex toys. Not that we think our work is frivolous or silly. But we believe in fun because that’s what our products are about—fun. There are no joysticks more joyous than our dildos and vibrators. But because we are in the industry we’re in, we also emphasize respect. Because “fun” without respect is no fun. And respect is what makes trust possible.

That’s why our dress code is “wear what you want within reason,” we work flexibly, and everything’s geared toward achieving our objectives rather than people putting in a requisite nine-to-five. According to HR’s employee satisfaction surveys and metrics, Silicone Dream is one of the best companies to work for in the state, if not the entire country. And I’m proud of that.

I stride through the hall. Most desks sit empty, but that’s to be expected. There’s a surprise donut and coffee social today, sponsored by the R&D department. I’m skipping it, mainly because I’m not a huge donut fan. I prefer chips and salsa, but it’s too early in the morning for Mexican.

Our head of accounting, Barbara, is in her cubicle, though. She limits junk food because everyone on her mother’s side keeled over from heart attacks before they hit fifty. She runs every morning for an hour—and has the wiry gym-bod to show for it—and eats healthy. Says she plans to live to see her grandkids. I admire her grit because it can’t be easy to overcome temptation, but she’s never asked her coworkers to give up their snacks for her.

So whenever we have a company party or event, I make sure to have a delicious healthy option for her. But R&D can sometimes be forgetful.

“Good morning, Sierra.” Barbara smiles.

“Morning! How did Michelle’s auditions go?”

“Pretty good. She got a callback from one of the acting schools.” She beams with maternal pride, reaching for a small Ziploc bag of baby carrots.

“Good for her.” I make a mental note to follow up later on where Michelle decides to go and see if she qualifies for any of the scholarships Silicone Dream offers.

The moment I enter my office and set my bags and cage down, Heather comes over. My assistant’s silver bob is neat, her pale gray eyes sharp and observant. She’s carrying her tablet, although I don’t know why she bothers because everything’s in her head. Every time I ask a question, she can answer without consulting anything.

She’s wearing a white boat-neck top and dark brown slacks. Both look fabulous on her slender figure. Her feet are in dark beige walking shoes that are designed more for comfort than style. She has the energy of a teenager, but prefers comfortable shoes for her late-fifties joints.

She’s been with the company for ages. I inherited her from Grandma, and depend on her for everything. I told her she could never, ever retire or quit. And I make sure she knows how much I appreciate her in every way, including a generous compensation package.

“Good morning,” Heather says, handing me a cup of coffee. She knows I always have a mug before I leave the house, but she still insists. Says I function better with an extra dose of caffeine.

To be honest, I think she’s right. I feel better on the days I get Heather’s coffee. “Thank you,” I say, sitting down.

“Would you like me to take the cage?”

“Just leave it for now. I’ll introduce you to Bullet and G-Spot later, so you know which is which and they can smell and get to know you.”

Heather’s going to take care of my babies while I have my divorce-cation in New Orleans—starting later today! My best friend Ellie, who is taking some well-earned R&R with her family in St. Louis, is going to join me, and we’ll hit a masquerade party to kick off my newly revived singlehood. I won’t be back until late Sunday, and don’t feel comfortable leaving Bullet and G-Spot at home alone, even though they’re low-maintenance pets.

“G-Spot, huh?” Heather says.

“Todd could never find her.” I waggle an eyebrow.

Heather laughs. “By the way, Saori said everything for the display in New Orleans has been confirmed and shipped, if you want to check that out.”

“You know I do.” I’ll be at the party where the display is going to be set up. “Tell her I’ll take a few pictures for our social media profiles.”

“Splendid.” Heather taps her tablet. “You have the taste meeting for the strawberry-flavored lube options in five minutes.”