Page 86 of The Elusive Billionaire

As Grant, the oldest Harrington brother, approaches us, Brax mutters under his breath. “I’d rather be one of the drink cart girls with Madi and Sav.”

The reminder that Savvy is riding around in a beer cart wearing a tiny fucking golf dress has me tugging on my collar. That wasn’t my idea either. If one person even glances at her sideways, I’ll probably end up in jail.

“Braxton, Grey. Nice to meet you.” Grant holds his hand out to Brax first.

“Finally,” Roman growls. Up close, these two could be twins. The Harrington genes are strong.

“Time is money, gentlemen. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” These assholes are at the top of the food chain in our social network, but their business dealings are more…varied since their father died.

Instead of focusing solely on the banking industry, they’ve pivoted their wealth to security of every kind over the last ten years—it’s a curious choice, but they’ve given no statements for their reasoning. Privacy, at least, is something I can admire.

“We drove through the parts of Stillwater that were accessible before coming here,” Grant says, steering us to safer topics. “The destruction is truly unthinkable. I’m not sure you can fully comprehend that kind of damage without seeing it with your own eyes.”

“It is,” Brax agrees. “We’d like to raise a lot of money today. We’re hoping to commit to rebuilding 100 homes in 100 days.”

When Brax stepped down as CEO of Omni-Reyes, it was so he could focus on what he truly cared about—giving back. We now fully fund Discreet Daily Deeds, a nonprofit, so he can do just that.

The golf tournament falls into his domain, and he’s damn good at it. He’s much better at shmoozing for money than I am.

I prefer to write a check and walk away.

“We have a check made out for a million dollars,” Roman says. He carries an air of impatience with him, and he strikes me as someone who prefers to get his hands dirty rather than play golf. “What do you say we skip the golf and hit the bar?”

It’s like he read my damn mind.

Perhaps I judged these men too quickly.

Taking a practice swing with my club, I grunt in agreement. “Trust me, I’d like to. But we have obligations here that require our presence.”

“Photo ops,” he grumbles.

“Exactly.”

Braxton and Grant pair off, leaving me with Roman, and at the moment, I can’t say I’m all that upset by it. The thought of getting a hard sell from Grant for the next six hours is enough to make me want to hit myself over the head with my clubs.

“Care to tell me where the media kits are set up?” Roman asks. He’s staring through binoculars at the next hole, and he must see the press junket waiting for us.

“All even holes,” I grumble, then line up and hit my ball down the fairway.

“All nine of them?” He lowers the binoculars to glare at me. “What the hell kind of shit did you land in, Reyes?”

I wipe off the head of my driver to avoid facing him. Only someone who’s been through this would understand the duplicitous nature of doing a good deed in exchange for social proof of goodness.

“Oh, right.” He snaps his fingers in a way that tells me he knew all along exactly the PR debacle we’re currently in. “You know, DeVane isn’t someone you want to get involved with.”

My driver lands in my golf bag with so much force it nearly bounces out.

“I’m not getting involved with DeVane. DeVane is part of my fiancée’s past.” I snap my lips shut. Why am I even telling him this?

“I know,” he says cryptically. “It’s a shame she’s being dragged through this. She seems like a nice girl.”

I don’t ask him where he met her, even though the question sits on the tip of my tongue with venomous acidity.

“I’ve got it under control, Harrington.”

“If you say so, Reyes.”

He takes his sweet time joining me in the golf cart, but the moment his ass touches the seat, I hit the gas and don’t speak while I race to the second hole.