“I have a Jacques-o-late T-shirt somewhere,” says Max.
Of course he does.
“I want to hate him, but I don’t,” Max says.
“He seems so good.” I sit up and take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can be responsible for this,” I say gesturing to the profile. “He’s so, so…perfect.” Like a white dress that I want to buy but know I shouldn’t. I can’t be responsible for dry-clean-only Chantilly lace.
“That’s ridiculous. He’s a jet-setting billionaire and you just checked out of the hospital with a head injury and don’t know who you are. He’s the one who should be concerned about taking advantage of you.”
“But still. He’s so perfect. What if I wreck him?”
Max scoffs. “Who knows if he’s even being honest?”
This is coming from the man who only believes a person if they take a polygraph test, and not even a normal one. It has to be the one he invented. Funny that Fay called him a liar. Maybe truth is like memory—shifting depending on perspective, one thing to Fay and another to Max.22 One thing’s for sure—Max doesn’t believe he’s ever been on the wrong side of the truth.
“Call him,” he says.
I pull up the FaceTime app and call JP. My face pops up, which reminds me to wipe the smear of salsa off my nose and reapply my lipstick in a hurry. For good measure, I adjust the phone so that it gets me from a more flattering angle. No up-the-nose shots for JP.
“Hello?” I hear his sleepy voice first and then I see his face, which has that vulnerable little-boy quality that I seem to recognize—and respond to—right away. (Even if I can’t recall any of my former partners or their wake-up faces.) His hair is messed up but that just adds to the attractiveness. Rumpled hair and a stubbled Prince Charming jawline. He brings to mind that guy who played Jon Snow, but with a French accent and hair just beginning to gray at the temples, which somehow makes him look more trustworthy. He’s a mature, French Jon Snow. Any girl in her right mind would want to wake up next to him.
But I can’t help thinking, however briefly, about the unfairness of his easy attractiveness. Why do men get to be boyishly cute in the morning while women have to look like sex kittens the minute they open their eyes? I guess that’s because girlishness is bound up with sexuality at a much younger age? (No wonder I run a dating empire.)
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What time is it in Switzerland?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m just glad to see your face, Mia.” He sits up and props himself up on one elbow. He’s shirtless. Dear God, my previous decisions all make perfect sense.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes and puts on a pair of tortoiseshell acetate glasses. Why do they make him look even hotter? Maybe because his vision isn’t 20/20, he’s flawed enough to be mine.23 Plus it makes him look smart, which is undeniably sexy. “I’m sorry about that fight,” he says. “It was stupid. I hated leaving like that.”
“It’s okay.” Whatever we fought about, it was probably my fault. JP is clearly the better human of the two of us, all of his goodness and inner beauty grown in a hydroponic, pest-free environment and nurtured by unconditional love and reasonable expectations. Just like all the best weed. (OMG—where did that come from? Am I a pothead?)
“It felt like you were still mad this morning,” he said.
“I just don’t like being bought off.”
With a laugh he says, “Could have fooled me.”
I smile. I guess I am into being placated with diamonds. I’ve spent less time with JP than with myself, but somehow he seems easier to understand.
Max sips his horchata and I reach for it. Suddenly I feel parched.
When JP says, “Who’s with you?” I realize that was stupid.
I move the phone so that he can see Max. “Just the house sitter,” I say.
He opens his eyes wider. “Really? Max?”
Max nods.
JP doesn’t miss a beat. Apparently he doesn’t consider someone who house-sits competition. “Why aren’t you in Sonoma?” he asks, as if it just occurred to him. “I thought you were scouting out a date for some client.”
I shake my head. “A lot has happened…” I’m just about to explain everything to him when he says, “So sorry, sweetie, but can I call you back in a little bit? Jerome is buzzing me.” With an exasperated exhale, he says, “How many times do I have to take out these Sprüngli execs and tell them they’re pretty before they sign? They know they need Jacques-o-late.”
Jerome, Sprüngli execs—JP sounds incredibly important. “Of course.” I can tell him I lost my memory later. “I have a few fires to put out with GoldRush, too,” I say.
He laughs. “I bet you do.” In a softer voice he says, “I’m so glad you’re not mad, love.” Then he remembers Max is there. “Oh, and thanks for watching the house, Max. Hope it didn’t give you any trouble.” He blows me a kiss and then hangs up.
A gorgeous billionaire just told me he loves me. Who am I even?
Max and I sit in silence for a few seconds. It’s hard to fill the sacred space just vacated by JP, a god on Earth. What could anyone say that would do the moment justice? Instead I take a moment to meditate on his perfection, i.e., scroll through all of our couple’s shots on Instagram. We are beautiful and perfect. I’m not arm candy; I’m part of a power couple. I’m a legit businesswoman who is dating a legit businessman.
Max sighs. “He seems…nice.”
Talk about an understatement.
“Except where’s his respect for Sprüngli? That’s like a three-hundred-year-old chocolate company. Jacques-o-late—who does he think he is?” He dips a chip in the salsa. It makes his eyes water and he takes his horchata back and chugs.
“Hey!” I protest. “I stole that fair and square.”
“Not all of us can be JP,” he says with a hint of bitterness.
“Don’t be jealous of JP!”
“I’m not jealous,” he says, too emphatically. “Anyway, I was thinking…JP signed up for your dating service…”
“Looks like.”
“And you set him up with yourself?” His voice is filled with subtext.
I raise my shoulders in a you caught me gesture. “No one said I was stupid.”
“That’s for sure.”
He has a point, though. If any of the other women on the app realized I took JP for myself, they’d probably smack me upside the head and leave me for dead. I repeat this out loud to Max. It seems like as good a theory as any. I create my list of suspects: