Page 267 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

“Daryl, if you’re trying to communicate something to me, I don’t follow,” I say.

He keeps shaking his head. “The chips and salsa are free,” he says.

“The water?” I ask.

“Free,” Daryl answers.

“Well then, I suppose all that’s left is to say good evening,” I tell Daryl. I’m almost sure I hear a few scattered voices echoing my final two words.

When people want to impress you or make themselves out to be a kindred spirit, the first thing they’ll do is learn how to agree with everything you say. When you’re not giving them any opinions, the more ardent will just repeat the last few words you say while mirroring your gestures and nodding while you talk.

What I’ve never understood is how these people assume I’m a decent person. Most of the billionaires I’ve met are the most callous, craven bastards with whom I’ve ever had the misfortune to share a room.

With millionaires, it’s more of a mixed bag.

“Good evening,” Daryl says, and I finally feel like I can get up without committing some crime, though my eyes are on Daryl as I grab my cell phone off the table.

When I’m on the spot like this, I always feel like I’m supposed to say something even when logic clearly shows otherwise. “You stay out of trouble,” I tell Daryl. “Stay in school and don’t do drugs, unless they’re legal, or you have a prescription, but even then, you know,” I say, “go easy.”

Sometimes I forget how much I hated this town.

Finally leaving the table—and a generous tip—I endure a few autographs before I make it to the door. It’s not that I’m stuck up: I’d just like to leave this restaurant as quickly as possible.

After I’ve finally signed almost everything offered me—I draw the metaphorical line at underwear—I walk out the door, almost running into Grace.

“You’re here,” she says, her face a certain shade of embarrassed. “I thought you’d have left by now.”

“I didn’t believe you were coming,” I answer. “We can head inside if you want, but I’m assuming you wouldn’t be out here right now if there weren't some conflicting feelings. Can I tell you something that might take the pressure off, though?” I ask.

She’s crossing her arms, turned partially away from me. “What?” she asks.

“I just want dinner,” I tell her. “Me being who I am—I’m assuming that’s what’s bothering you?”

She nods. “It’s a little weird having a big-time CEO walk into your nothing shop in the middle of nowhere and ask you out for dinner at the middling of three restaurants in the village,” she says. “It makes me wonder what it is you actually want.”

Grace’s elbow-length, straight, auburn hair catches a little in the breeze, and now she’s brushing it out of her almost turquoise eyes. Sure, the romantic lighting is provided by the flashing green and red neon sign in the window next to us, but she’s enough to leave me searching for words.

“It’s dinner,” I tell her. “Well, dinner and your companyduringthat dinner are what I was hoping for, if you want to get specific, but that’s the end of the plot.”

“You sound like someone who’s used to people distrusting you,” she says.

I smile, but I hold back my chuckle. “Nobody owns a company and doesn’t have enemies,” I tell her.

“But out here, where the richest family in town is the one that runs the gas station and has a two-level houseanda basement instead of a two-level houseincludingthe basement, it’s different, right?” she asks. “You don’t haveanyenemies out here because the only thing people know about you is the money. Because of that, you’re supposed to be able just to walk into a shop, pick a girl, and then that’s that until you get sick of her, but that’s not me. You walked into the wrong store and picked the wrong woman if you think I’m going to throw myself at you because you’re in the newspaper.”

“You guys get newspapers out here?” I ask. If they ever replace me as CEO, it’ll be because I find the worst moments to tell jokes.

Her eyes narrow and she shakes her head at me. I just want to have dinner and a conversation with Grace, but there’s a real and growing risk of me getting punched in the neck.

“I make jokes when I’m on the spot,” I tell her. “It’s a character flaw. It’s pretty universally despised, and I apologize.”

“Hey, look,” she says, “it’s magically all better now even though you still haven’t answered my original question.”

I’m looking up and to the left for my memory, but I don’t find it. “I’m sorry,” I say, “to which question are you referring?”

“Listen, Nikolai—Zach,” she says, reaching her hand out to shake mine, “it’s been real interesting getting to know you. And I’m sure the people in town will be telling their great-grandchildren about way back when, but I don’t think this was such a good idea.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but I’m not going to press the issue. I am going to be in town for a while, but I can give you my card if you change your mind. That’s up to you.”

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