The Last Eligible Billionaire

From the Text Messages of Hayes and Begonia

Begonia: Good morning, sunshine! Sorry I missed you leaving. How was breakfast with Merriweather and Winnie? Or ignore me. I know you’re busy. We can talk later.

Hayes: It’s two in the afternoon.

Begonia: It’s still morning in Hawaii. P.s. I should not drink wine again tonight.

Hayes: There’s a craft brewery with excellent burgers a short helicopter ride from Sagewood House. Be ready at seven. They have root beer if you’re off alcohol altogether.

Begonia: Françoise is making roast duck with some kind of fancy sauce I can’t spell, and fingerling potatoes, and brussels sprouts that she swears will taste like they’re blessed by the gods, and crème brûlée for dessert.

Hayes: Would you rather have duck at home with my family, or a burger with local flavor?

Begonia: She’s going to so much work.

Hayes: She goes to that much work every day. It’s her job. She likes it.

Begonia: But people like to feel appreciated.

Hayes: The people at the craft brewery like to feel appreciated too.

Begonia: So we have to do both. I didn’t pack my Thanksgiving pants. This could get uglier than me on three glasses of wine.

Hayes: You’re oddly adorable on three glasses of wine. I’ve honestly never had a woman in my bedroom confess to wanting to lick the frost off of windows, and it was more charming than I thought it would be. Especially since there wasn’t any frost on the windows. Not in late June.

Begonia: I said I wanted to do that WHEN I WAS SIX, and ONLY on Christmas morning, because MAGIC.

Hayes: You’re thirty-two and you still believe in magic.

Begonia: I believe in making magic.

Hayes: And you’re quite good at it.

Begonia: You didn’t tell me how breakfast went with Merriweather and Winnie.

Hayes: Terrible. They told me what to order, didn’t listen to a word I said, sent the tabloids a picture of my left shoe, and stiffed the server.

Begonia: *picture of herself making a horrified face*

Hayes: Teasing, Bluebell. They’re perfect, both starting later this week, hence a celebratory dinner OUT instead of in with my nosy family, whom I’ll be relocating back to their own houses posthaste.

Begonia: HAYES RUTHERFORD, YOU MADE ANOTHER JOKE. And it was a bad joke at that. Also, who says POSTHASTE? Seriously?

Hayes: I’ll have to buy you diamonds to make up for the error in my judgment.

Begonia: I demand a poem in recompense. Recompense. Ha. That’s a fancy word. Don’t use it in the poem you write me.

Hayes: I saw an article about you in your hometown paper. You didn’t mention you love clay pottery.

Begonia: That article is ancient. You were googling me!

Hayes: Yes, and enjoying it so very immensely that we nearly burned the house down.

Begonia: I’m sitting with YOUR MOTHER and she just asked me why I suddenly went red as an overripe beet. Warn a girl before you say things like that.

Hayes: Begonia, I’m about to say something highly improper and scandalous and it would horrify my mother and will probably make you want to board a helicopter to get to me as soon as humanly possible.

Begonia: I’m turning my phone off until I’m alone.

Hayes: There’s a delivery truck on the way to the house right now with a pottery wheel, an industrial-size block of clay, and every clay modeling instrument that the internet insisted you needed to spend an afternoon getting filthy. Perhaps you can give me lessons later.

Begonia: *selfie of herself with her eyes bugging out and a little shiny*

Hayes: You’re enjoying the weather. Looks lovely.

Begonia: I make AWFUL pottery.

Hayes: But you enjoy the process.

Begonia: OMG, the truck is pulling up. You weren’t joking.

Hayes: You didn’t want diamonds or pearls. I had to get creative.

Begonia: I don’t know what to say. Thank you feels so very inadequate.

Hayes: Say you’ll do dinner with me at the brewery.

Begonia: Of course. Yes. Happily. Can I be coated in clay when we go?

Hayes: I would expect nothing less.