Page 61 of Point of No Return

Guessing from the look he gave me this morning, I can only guess I’ve pinned him to a T.The look just screamed ‘Royal Oxford isnotmeant to be slept in.’

A knock at the door draws his heated attention away from me, and when Crew motions Skar outside, I’m not surprised that he follows. Through the blinds, I watch the vendors finish stocking the bar as Skar and Crew murmur quietly. The door clicks closed, and I suppress a satisfied smile when I hear their footsteps retreat down the stairs.

When I spy them both walking across the club, I stroll back toward the bookshelves. I’m not naive enough to think that the office isn’t under surveillance, so I’m careful to seem nonchalant as I read over the titles again. Nothing looks too out of the ordinary. But when I reach the bottom shelf, I’m surprised when gold ink flashes back at me.

While thousand-dollar books in a billionaire’s office wouldn’t normally catch my attention, the fact that I’ve seen the books twicedoes.He has the same Peacock Editions on the shelves in his room.

There’s only one reason someone might have two copies of the same books. Though I don’t have enough time to explore it more now, I know I’ve just found a gold mine.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Charlotte

Skar offers to have the car take me home sometime later, but I’m surprised when he doesn’t object to me heading downstairs and sitting at the bar instead. He holes up in his office after some vague comment about paperwork.

Crew is busy unloading boxes while I’m distracting him with absurd questions about business and drinks and Viper’s usual patrons. Because every bar has its usual clientele. And I’m sure that the kind of crowd Viper attracts is nothing short of a party.

“You used to bartend here?”

“Yep,” he adds another crate of vodka to the top shelf behind him. “That’s how I met Skar. He learned about my background. Offered me a job in security instead.”

“Sec-”

“That’s all I’m telling you.”

I frown at his abrupt answer, but I figure that out of anybody, my husband’s head of security won’t be the one to squeeze answers out of.

“What’s the most popular… drink order?” I lazily wonder as he sets down the last load of liquor behind the bar. While I’m positive my chatter only makes his job ten times harder, he’s mostly indulged me. He smiles, nodding toward another man down the bar.

“Ask the bartender.” He teases as I swirl my water around my glass. He quickly adds: “These days, I’m guessing a Cosmo.”

My mouth forms an amused O. “Really? I was thinking whiskey on the rocks. Shaken. Not stirred.”

He laughs, leaning against the bar to watch me. “More of an umbrella and sugar on the rim type of crowd. You’d be surprised by the kind of people that come through.”

I smile as I overlook the people still arranging light fixtures and testing the speakers at every corner. “What do you drink?” I ask.

“When I do…” he shrugs. “Old fashioned. A beer. Not picky. What are you drinking?”

I shrug, my smile casual. “Water.”

“Okay, deadpan. Don’t play then,” he laughs as he grabs a nozzle and tops my drink off.

“Well…” I start, deciding there’s no harm in the truth here. “My favorite drink is this mango moscato. Made exclusively on a reserve in Prevya. Can’t find anything else like it.”

His brown eyes light in surprise. “You mean your favorite drink is something that isn’t made anymore?”

I frown, sighing as the front doors of the club open, letting in a breeze. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

Crew’s voice drops an octave, tone flattening as he glances past me. “Why don’t you hop down for a sec, Char? We’ve got incoming.”

Tyson Benenati doesn’t need much of an introduction. While Skar is a shadow, calm, collected, Tyson stands out like a sore thumb in this place. The sight of him being wheeled in, his expensive suit so at odds with everyone’s casual attire, is only made worse by the sight of my father strolling in beside him.

My father is not a small man. He’s taller than most men by most standards. And he’s round from too many drinks and hours spent executing orders behind a desk. But compared to my mother, compared to Tyson, he shrinks in comparison. I force a smile, the fact that Crew steps around the bar is not lost on me. That gun on his hip seems a whole hell of a lot more lethal now.

“Charlotte,” Tyson croaks, clearing his throat as they come to a stop in front of us.

I don’t stand, don’t acknowledge them in any fashion other than a nod. Whether Tyson notices the slight, I don’t know. But he’s no longer the only Benenati present.

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