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“Give Granger your cell number. He will have my assistant get in touch with you.”

Maddox shoves his hands in his pants pockets, and tipping his head to the side, he looks at me like I’m one of his prized limited-edition sports cars. I’m nice to look at but too valuable to take for a ride.

God, that is such a crass analogy, comparing taking a car for a ride to having sex. But if he’s making that comparison, it’s likely he won’t risk taking me for a test drive and “wrecking” me. Therefore, he’ll spend the day with me and take back with him whatever impression he leaves with. Hopefully, it’ll be I am to be seen but not touched.

He takes my relief the wrong way. A look of relief is my famous blasé expression.

“Do you do none of the heavy lifting, Blaise? Does everyone do the communicating for you? Are you not capable of lifting your own goddamn fingers to do your own work? Never mind, don’t answer. You’re nothing but a spoiled brat who uses her trauma as an excuse to not do a thing but spend money on fancy clothes, an entourage of beef cakes for bodyguards, and a party house in the middle of nowhere.”

Maddox’s words carry in the silent ballroom. I should run away and hide from embarrassment, but I’ve experienced firsthand his kind of misplaced anger. I go with my first guess.

In a low voice, I say for him only, “It’s okay not to be at your top-notch best performance.”

“What are you talking about?”

I tilt my head toward the corner of the room where we’ll have privacy.

Granger gets the message. He grabs Maddox’s arm and steers him to the corner. The rest of my team split up. Two help my cousins get the guests out the door, shutting down the party. Granger and Marco have my back.

Tomorrow, there’ll be headlines about my humiliation at the hands of the notorious “Mad” Maddox Stassi, the guy rumored to have had his sister’s rapists castrated.

Maddox was never charged with the crimes. My cousins said the men didn’t talk even when offered federal protection. I don’t blame them for keeping mum. If Maddox was responsible for the vigilante act, he might have gone after their tongues next.

Yes, that’s the stand-up citizen I’m empathizing with though he lambasted me in front of a crowd of partygoers excited for something scandalous to dissect and gossip about.

“Maddox—”

Granger holds up his hand. I exhale, and shrugging, I wait for Granger to put in his two cents. This won’t take long. Like me, he’s not a huge conversationalist. Action means more to us than words.

“Apologize.”

See what I mean?

“I will after she says her piece.”

O-kay, then.

“Pent-up frustration and you’re taking it out on me.”

“Come again?”

To make my point, I slide my eyes down to his crotch without moving my head and then slide my gaze back to his face again. He smirks.

“I can get it up just fine, Blaise.”

I set my clasped gloved hands over my heart. “Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want to entertain a grouchy eggplant.”

“Eggplant? Seriously, Blaise?”

“If the color fits . . . ”

“It doesn’t. So no need mentioning it again.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Good,” I say.