My Grumpy Billionaire

“Sex isn’t like soft drinks. You always have to do more to keep things exciting and new. It’s like saying, why not quit doing research because we already know so much? My work has meaning because it helps people feel good about their sexuality and derive more pleasure out of their sex lives. Don’t you feel great when your students do well in your class? Or your research unearths something people didn’t know before?”

Her question makes me pause. I teach because it’s part of being a professor. My students leave me after each semester, when their coursework is over. I try not to make too much of an emotional investment. It isn’t healthy.

And it’s the same with my research. I’m proud of the work I did on the economics of domestic crime—which won me the prestigious John Bates Clark Medal—but again, I try not to put too much of my heart into it. I care enough to be good at it, but that’s all.

“Not really,” I say finally. “It’s my job. I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it.”

She cocks her head. “Then what do you love?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Her eyes grow wide. “No way.” She takes her phone and taps a few times. “Not even these little guys?” She flips the screen and shows me a picture of sleepy bulldog puppies lying on top of each other like a layer cake.

My heart does something odd and funky. Something that feels like a smile tugs at my mouth, but I flatten my lips instead. “They’re all right.”

“Wow.” Sierra places the phone, screen down, on the table.

I’m slightly disappointed I can’t see the puppies anymore, but I force my attention back to the dinner.

We talk about work for the rest of the meal. And I do my best to pretend I don’t notice her studying me.