Page 106 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“If only,” I mutter as he makes his way toward our table.

First thing he does is to set his hand on the back of Elle chair, already going for a fight, I see. I stand, letting him feel my full height.

“I heard you were in town. The Germantown Group?” he asks.

My pulse thuds low and hard. “Is there something you want, or did you just want to ruin our appetites? If so, you’re too late. We had a lovely time.” There’s nothing he hates more than to see me happy.

“I understand they’re in a mind to sell,” he says.

I sigh as if I’m bored, though I’m anything but. I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows about the Germantown Group. He always did have a large network of spies.

“They are well positioned for a takeover and a revamp,” he says. “I was thinking I might put in a bid. If they want to sell, they shouldn’t sell to a chop shop.”

Just like him to use my legwork and intel, and then swoop in for the kill. I smile. You never let him see anything.

He smiles back. We’re in a pitched battle, though if you didn’t know us, you might mistake this for a happy father-son reunion.

And for the record, my father would chop up the Germantown Group, too, but he has better PR. It’s a lot of lies and fake philanthropy.

I can’t let him take it out from under me. How did he discover that they were in a mood to sell?

“The look on your face? The acquisition is already paying off.” Then he turns to Elle. “Royce Blackberg,” he says. “And you are?” He holds out his hand.

“Don’t touch her,” I say.

Elle frowns at him, refusing to offer her hand and even as he beckons with his, instantly taking my side. The feeling of her being with me without question is almost worth all of this. People never take my side. They never think I want or need it.

Usually I don’t.

But this now…it feels fucking amazing. Like we’re a team.

“Is this the executive coach?” he asks. “Delivering coaching with a happy ending, from the looks of it. I’d love to arrange a session with your office. Bexley Partners, is it?”

I watch myself move around the table toward him, grab him with brutal force. My arm comes around in a left hook, connecting with his jaw with a satisfying crunch. It’s the only hit I get in, because his driver, Steen, and his other bodyguard are on me, one holding me so that Steen can get in a few hits before the staff intervenes.

“I won’t press changes,” my father says.

“Yeah, you go ahead and take the high road,” I say through the pain of my split lip.

“All one can do around you.”

I laugh and throw several hundreds onto the table—enough to cover the dinner and a couple hundred extra—something for the staff who has to clean up this mess. “Let’s go,” I say, taking her hand.

In the back of my car, she presses a green napkin to my forehead and tells the driver to do a pit stop at the drug store.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Yeah, your lip and forehead are only completely split. That guy hit you so hard. It made such a loud sound!” Gently she repositions the napkin. “Who was that?”

“My father and his driver and his assistant, but they’re really his bodyguards.”

“Wait, that was your father?”

“Unfortunately,” I say.

“What’s going on? You think he’s going to try and steal your acquisition out from under you? Why would he even do that?”

“It’s a long story,” I say. “We don’t have the most harmonious relationship.”

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