Page 2 of Grumpy Alien Billionaire (Mates of Veritas #2)

CHAPTER 2

LANZ

T he taxi driver's eyes widen as I hand him a hundred-dollar bill.

"Keep the change."

My reflection shines from the marble floor of Truth-1's lobby. The security guard nods, averting his gaze. Smart man.

The private elevator whisks me to the top floor, but my mind stays stuck on those wide blue eyes and that delicate flush across her cheeks. Tyler. Such a tiny thing, barely reaching my chest. The way she squared her shoulders when questioning me about the accident...

A growl builds in my chest. The beast inside me wants to hunt, to chase, to claim. Ridiculous. I've spent decades mastering my instincts. One small human shouldn't affect me this way.

The elevator chimes. My reflection in the polished doors shows golden eyes blazing brighter than usual. Unacceptable.

"Cancel my afternoon meetings."

"Yes, Mr. Ramone." My assistant doesn't look up from her desk. Another smart one.

I stride into my office and lock the door. The view of Sunny Cove spreads before me, but instead of the usual satisfaction, it brings memories of soft blonde curls and the scent of lavender.

"This is about damage control." The words echo in my empty office. "Nothing more."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Eight o'clock can't come soon enough.

A stack of contracts sits on my desk, demanding attention. I grab my pen, but her voice echoes in my head.

The pen hovers over the contract, but my mind drifts. Tyler’s face flickers behind my eyes, her soft blonde hair catching the sunlight like spun gold. I imagine running my fingers through it, feeling the strands glide against my scaled skin. Her neck, pale and delicate, the pulse quickening as I lean in to breathe in her scent—lavender and something uniquely her. My body tenses as I picture pulling her against me, her small frame fitting perfectly, her warmth seeping through the air between us.

The pen moves. I don’t realize it at first, but when I blink, the margins of the contract are filled with sketches. Curves. Soft lines. Her face, her body, unclothed . Every detail etched with precision. My breath hitches. I drop the pen like it’s on fire.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.

The contract is ruined. I grab it, crumpling it in one hand, and stride to the shredder. The machine whirrs as it consumes the paper—and the evidence of my lapse in discipline.

I press the intercom on my desk. “Amelia, bring me another copy of the SanTech contract. And make it quick.”

“Right away, Mr. Ramone,” her voice crackles back.

I slump into my chair, running a hand over my face. Control yourself, Lanz. The words echo in my head like a mantra. You are an Elite Vakutan Warrior. Act like it. I clench my fists, the scales on my knuckles tightening. This isn’t me. I don’t lose focus. I don’t daydream. Not about humans. Not about anyone.

The door clicks open. Amelia steps in, her heels clicking against the floor, and places the new contract on my desk. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Anything else, sir?”

“No. That’s all.”

She’s out the door before I can say another word. Smart woman. I glance at the fresh contract, the blank lines waiting for my signature. This time, I keep my mind on the task at hand. No distractions. No wandering thoughts.

The fresh contract sits before me, but my focus is shattered by the ringing of my compad. I glance at the ID and my stomach clenches - Captain Pyke.

"Yes, Commander?" I answer, keeping my tone neutral.

Pyke's gruff voice crackles through the speaker. "I heard about the incident earlier today. Were the Grolgath involved?"

"No, sir. It was simply a mundane vehicular accident." I pause, knowing what's coming next.

"Was your identity compromised?"

I hesitate, picturing those wide blue eyes studying me with concern and curiosity.

"Potentially. I'm...taking care of it."

Pyke grunts.

"What do you mean you're taking care of it?"

I choose my words carefully.

"The human witnessed abilities beyond what she should have. I've arranged a meeting to discuss the situation and maintain protocol."

"See that you do." Pyke's gravelly tone leaves no room for argument. "Our intel suggests the Grolgath are planning something major along the Pacific coast. We can't afford any risks right now."

"Understood. I'll contain this." My jaw tightens as I cut the transmission.

Contain it. Such a clinical term for the delicate situation with Tyler. Just the thought of her sends an unexpected fluttering through my core. I push it aside, focusing on the matter at hand. Assessing risks, formulating contingencies - this I can handle with the tactical precision drilled into me since birth.

And yet...a persistent voice whispers that this is more than a mere risk to be neutralized. Tyler isn't some nameless human to be manipulated then discarded. She's...different. Special, in a way I can't quite define.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. I'm letting this tiny female cloud my judgment. Ridiculous for a warrior of my stature. I'll meet with her as planned, lay out the facts, and ensure her silence through whatever means necessary. Then I can refocus on my mission without these irritating distractions.

Yes, that's the logical path forward. Simple, efficient, effective. So why does the thought of wielding such cold utilitarianism against Tyler's warmth fill me with a strange sense of disquiet?

I tap my compad, connecting to the Golden Odyssey's bridge.

"Captain Soanzo."

"Yes, Mr. Ramone?"

"Have the yacht ready to sail by eight-thirty tonight."

"Of course, sir. Should I have the helicopter fueled as well?"

"Absolutely. I have an important business meeting this evening."

A pause stretches over the line. I can picture Soanzo's weathered face breaking into that knowing smirk he wears whenever he thinks he's figured something out.

"Would this business meeting happen to involve another celebrity? Perhaps that new pop star who's been making headlines?"

My jaw clenches. The old salt knows me too well - or thinks he does. True, my reputation for entertaining the rich and famous aboard the Golden Odyssey is well earned. But Tyler...

She's different. No designer clothes or practiced smile. Just genuine warmth and that spark of curiosity in those blue eyes.

"Just have everything ready, Captain."

"As you wish, sir." The amusement in his voice makes me want to growl.

I end the call before I say something I'll regret. Soanzo may be right about my intentions having nothing to do with business, but he's wrong about everything else.

I tap my compad, connecting to my tailor’s shop on the 87th floor. The holographic projection of Marco, my personal tailor, flickers to life. He’s a wiry man with a perpetually harried expression, but his hands are steady as they adjust the lapel of a suit jacket.

“Marco, I need options. Now.”

“Mr. Ramone,” he says, his voice a mix of exasperation and deference. “You’re not giving me much time. What’s the occasion?”

“A date,” I say, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. “Something... understated but striking. And don’t bring me anything black. I’m not attending a funeral.”

Marco raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

True to his word, Marco arrives with a rack of suits, each one more luxurious than the last. He wheels them into my office, the fabrics catching the light in a way that makes them shimmer like liquid.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands. “Let’s start with this one.” He pulls out a deep navy suit with a subtle pinstripe. “Classic, timeless, and it brings out your eyes.”

I shake my head. “Too corporate. Next.”

He sighs and moves to the next option—a charcoal gray suit with a velvet lapel. “This one’s got a bit of edge. Perfect for a billionaire with a reputation.”

“Too... predictable,” I say, dismissing it with a wave of my hand.

Marco mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “picky bastard” but moves on. He pulls out a pale cream suit, the fabric so soft it looks like it’s been spun from moonlight. “This,” he says, holding it up with a flourish. “This is the one.”

I step closer, running my fingers over the fabric. It’s smooth, almost silken, and the color is warm without being ostentatious. “What do you pair it with?”

“Charcoal shirt,” he says without hesitation. “No tie. Keep it relaxed but refined. And these—” He pulls out a pair of Italian loafers, the leather polished to a mirror shine. “—will tie it all together.”

I nod, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction. “This’ll do.”

Marco smirks as he helps me into the suit. “You’re going to knock her dead, Mr. Ramone.”

“That’s the idea,” I mutter, adjusting the cuffs. The fit is perfect, the fabric draping over my frame in a way that’s both flattering and comfortable. I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows and can’t help but feel a flicker of anticipation.

“You’re sure about this?” Marco asks, his tone teasing. “I’ve never seen you this... particular.”

“It’s just a date,” I say, though the words feel hollow. “Nothing more.”

Marco chuckles, gathering the rejected suits. “If you say so. But if you need a time machine to skip ahead to eight o’clock, let me know. I might have one in the back.”

I shoot him a glare, but he’s already wheeling the rack out the door, whistling a tune that’s far too cheerful for my liking. I glance at the clock. Three hours to go. Three hours too long.