Page 88 of Most Eligible Billionaire

“The emergency meeting?” Her face goes pale. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

“They carried on as if you knew. I assumed you didn’t want to come—it’s more detail than you usually get into. It’s an emergency meeting.”

I straighten up, unsure what to think. “Well, let’s get a car.”

Five minutes later, April and Smuckers and I are riding in the back of a speeding limo.

April has Smuckers in her lap. “It came up fast,” April says. “The project is in jeopardy. It’s bad.”

“What happened?”

“Dartford & Sons. They’re blowhards. Total asshole developers.”

“So I’ve heard. What’d they do?”

She’s absentmindedly playing tug with Smuckers. “Here’s the thing with a development like the Ten—if Locke tells the neighbors about their plans before they’ve bought up all the properties, word will leak and a competitor will buy one key lot and hold it hostage. Dartford & Sons is notorious for that.”

“So Dartford bought a lot in the middle of the Ten?”

“No—we just closed on the last property, so the Dartford brothers can’t wreck it that way. Instead, they poisoned the neighbors against it. Acted like Locke has been doing things in secret. They’ll get the councilperson to veto the project, make the land worthless, then try and get a racetrack through.”

“Who wants a racetrack in their neighborhood?” I ask.

“Nobody, but the Dartford brothers’ll bribe and lie their way into projects. They cross lines most people won’t.”

Sure enough, when we arrive at the community center, there’s a red truck with the words Dartford & Sons on the side of it.

I pull open the door and we enter a cool lobby with a lot of bulletin boards and stacked chairs all around. A hallway leads left and another leads right. Down to the right is where we hear the yelling.

We enter the meeting room, which turns out to be a small gymnasium packed with so many people that they can’t all fit on the chairs, so they crowd around the corners. We stand by the door, in the back of it all. I nestle Smuckers in my coat.

The people seem angry.

At Henry.

He’s in front of them, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. There’s a PowerPoint image—an architectural drawing, all sketchy and with watercolor touches—on the screen behind him.

I recognize it as the artist’s version of the Ten.

He’s talking about it. How they’re going to decontaminate the site. His vision for the walking bridge. Residences along the water. It’s kind of amazing to see him in “on” mode—passionate about what he loves. Full of fire, even in the storm.

He spots me through the crowd, settles his gaze on me, and I feel warm all the way through.

He starts strolling with the mic, being the master orator that he is, a super hot Julius Caesar. He moves around the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on me, like we’re the only two people in the room.

Dizziness washes over me.

One of the angry neighbors gets up and starts criticizing how the walls go right to the sidewalk with no room for greenery.

Henry answers him, still coming at me. I straighten up, feeling like a virgin, bound and ready to be a sacrifice for the billionaire architect who can carve a griffin out of balsawood. Ready for him to ravage and tear me apart.

All in all, not a bad feeling.

He stops in front of me. My heart pounds. He lowers the microphone. Under his breath, he says, “Hi.”

I swallow, overwhelmed by the effect he has on me, by how much I missed him. “Hi,” I say.

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