My Grumpy Billionaire

“Yes, but…it’s complicated. A lot of platforms don’t like to see adult products.”

“Prudes,” he mutters.

“Oh my God. So unfair. But we have other ways.”

A man who looks like he has a bowling ball for a head walks over. He has a deliberate, trundling way of walking that reminds me of my hamsters.

“Hello, Griffin,” he says, placing a fat-fingered hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “So happy to see you here. And I presume this vision of beauty is Sierra Fullilove?”

I smile warmly. “Yes, I am.”

“Enchanté. I’m Charles Phillips. Head of the economics department.”

He extends a hand. I take it and give it a couple of good pumps. His palm is surprisingly dry and cool.

“I’m so glad we finally get to meet. Your grandmother and I were fairly close.”

“Yes, she said nice things about the department.” It’s more to be polite than anything. Grandma rarely spoke about any of the departments at the college.

Somebody comes over and taps Griffin on the shoulder. They whisper something, and Griffin looks at me. “Mind if I speak to him for a second?” His eyes say I can always refuse.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t have to stick by my side the entire time we’re here. I want him to be able to socialize with his colleagues. And it isn’t like I don’t know how to handle somebody who wants money.

“Griffin’s a remarkable talent. Brilliant mind,” Charles says.

“He really is,” I say, pleased that the head of his department recognizes that.

“Did you know that he won the John Bates Clark Medal?”

“No. What’s that?”

“It’s an annual award given to a particularly bright young American economist. Many of the recipients have gone on to win the Nobel Prize.”

I grin, happy for Griffin. He made it sound like he wasn’t too crazy about his work, but he has to love it if he’s that good at it. How else would he muster the enthusiasm and perseverance to do the work necessary to win an award as prestigious as the one Charles mentioned? Give Griffin a few decades, and he’ll win a Nobel, too. I just know it.

It’s sort of cute how he won’t admit how he feels out loud, especially when it’s something positive or affectionate. I make a mental note to tease him later.

“I’m thrilled to hear that,” I say.

Charles looks at me, his chest puffed out like a seal who’s done a particularly difficult trick. “Yes, and his research could use—”

“Oh my God!” Lori’s voice cuts through the crowd. She looks at her phone and then at Griffin. “You’re the secret love child between Ted Lasker and Rachel Griffin?”

What?

Stunned, I stare at Griffin wordlessly. Ted Lasker, the movie producer? Is that why Griffin was at that party? He’s standing completely still. His face is bloodless, his eyes unnaturally dark as he stares at Lori. Everyone else is gaping like he’s a Martian who just landed in the middle of the party.

“What are you talking about?” Griffin finally says, his voice terrible.

Lori pulls her shoulders together like a kid who’s unsure if she’s in trouble. “There’s this article that just went viral. It says that you’re the secret love child of Ted Lasker and Rachel Griffin.” She holds her phone up in defense. Don’t get mad at me, it wasn’t me.

“Rachel Griffin? That name sounds familiar,” one of the younger professors says.

“She’s a supermodel from, like, twenty, twenty-five years ago? She was the hottest thing on the market back then. And she’s still hot. She does photoshoots and stuff like that these days,” a middle-aged female professor answers, staring at Griffin like he’s a stranger.

“Hey, so you’re named after your mom,” somebody to my left exclaims. “Did not know that.”

“And you inspire sex toys?” Lori says.