Page 100 of The Elusive Billionaire

With his heated gaze on mine, I take another bite of lobster and nearly moan. Something that looks like a lobster should not taste so damn good.

Across the table, Roman’s attention on Clover becomes even more focused. The shift in his demeanor is subtle, but my pulse spikes.

“Have you had stalkers before?” Roman’s tone sends a chill racing through my bloodstream, and suddenly Grey’s hand is back on my thigh.

“No.” Clover’s laugh is uncomfortable at best. “Honestly, I do my best to blend in. Most people wouldn’t recognize me if I walked around with a sign over my head.”

Roman’s shoulders are wound tightly, and his knuckles are white around his utensils. “Not even after theDeathly Vowsmovie adaption a few years ago?”

He must really be a fan if he knows about that.

Roman shifts his focus to Grey and shrugs. I can tell he’s forcing his muscles to relax because Grey does the same thing. “It’s my job to know everything about everyone we do business with, and that extends to their family.”

That seems suspicious, but I let it go. For now.

Clover instantly keys into the rising tension and rushes to defuse it. “Oh gosh, no. I was so nervous, I never even made it to the red carpet for the movie premiere, and I didn’t do any interviews or anything. It’s not really my thing.”

“Is there anyone in your life who makes you uncomfortable?” Grant asks.

“No. I love everyone,” she says quietly. “I have a great, quiet life.”

The Harrington brothers’ questions are beginning to feel like an interrogation, and my poor friend is about to have a panic attack.

“But it is weird that Valen has suddenly started replying to your letters,” I offer, taking the pressure off Clover, but voicing a concern both Madi and I have had since his random sonnets started arriving last year.

Roman drops his fork to his plate with a clatter. On the other side of the table, Grant leans forward too.

“What letters?” Grant asks.

Grey and I make eye contact but say nothing.

“Oh, Lord. It’s nothing.” Clover shrinks in on herself. “Valen is just…he was a childhood friend I lost touch with. I’ve…” Her brown eyes flick nervously around the table. “It’s really stupid and beyond embarrassing.” If the poor girl flushes any harder, she might pass out. “But I’ve written him letters for years.”

“And he’s been…” Roman cuts a look to his brother that I can’t decipher before quickly focusing on Clover. “Responding?”

She shrugs. “Last year, he wrote back with a sonnet, which completely threw me for a loop. A few months later, a poem.”

“It’s weird as hell,” I mutter under my breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Grey asks so low I’m the only one who hears.

“That is…strange,” Grant says stiffly, saving me from having to reply, and I’m thankful because I’m not in the habit of sharingmy best friend’s secrets. “We’d be happy to look into it, if you’d like.” He’s looking at Grey, but Clover answers.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s okay. I’ve been writing to him since I was a teenager. It’s obvious he doesn’t want anything to do with me.” She shrugs sheepishly, but her pain slices through me. I know how much this asshole’s silence kills her. “It’s become a habit now, I think. I should probably just stop writing him. It’s pathetic.”

“No,” Madi says. “It’s not. You two have shared…history. You do what you need to do. If he didn’t want you writing him, he would have said so or returned your letters.”

“If he knew about them.” At least, that’s what I think Roman muttered. I can’t be sure, and his expression gives nothing away, but Grey is throwing a murderous expression his way too.

“Maybe,” Clover says as she slips back into the shawl she brought with her and ties it tightly around herself. The fact that she removed it at all tells me she had been at least a little comfortable with Roman, and that rarely happens.

Grey nods toward Clover, and I follow his line of vision to find Grant studying him closely. “Perhaps it is time to set up a meeting.”

Grant nods, and I shiver, not from cold, but from the feeling that things are about to change—for us all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

GREYSON