Page 154 of The Billionaire's Baby
"You recognized the poet?" His chuckles. "Funny, could have sworn you were more of a Byron fan."
"I was…" I frown, "I mean, I am." I stare down at his upturned features, the hair matted about his shoulders, the hat pulled down low over his forehead so I can't make out the color of his eyes. The hair on the nape of my neck prickles.
"Do I know you?" I snap.
"Don’t think we run in the same circles, ol’ sport." He cackles.
Hmm. I frown down at his features. He doesn’t seem familiar. So why are all of my senses on high alert?
"Why the hell did you choose that particular line?" I growl.
"Quite evocative, isn’t it?" His lips curve. "Do you think he was talking about letting a woman go so she can find a love more suited to her needs?"
My guts twist. I swoop down, grab him by his collar and haul him up. The scent of alcohol and unwashed skin envelops me. I wince. "What the hell do you mean by that? Have you been spying on me? Who are you working for?" I demand.
"No one," he sputters, "just having a conversation, man. If you don’t have a cigarette, you only have to tell me. No need to get so worked up."
My grip tightens, and he coughs. He paws at my hand. "Let go, asshole," he chokes out. "The fuck’s wrong with you, man?"
I release him and he drops to the ground, then turns and scrambles off.
"Hey," I call out, but he breaks into a run. "What the hell?" I chase after him, but he speeds up. I increase my pace, try to keep up. But the tosser’s, clearly, in better shape than he smelled. He turns a corner, and by the time I reach it, he’s vanished. Bloody hell. I glance up and down the street, then walk to my car. Once inside, I pour sanitizer onto my palms, disinfect thoroughly, then message the rest of the Seven.
"Meeting. My place. Half hour."
Forty-five minutes later, I glance around at the faces of the rest of the guys. They’re sprawled around the living room of the suite I’ve rented at the Dorchester. It’s one of Saint’s hotels, so I’d gotten a booking, no problem. Except, the asshole is charging me a premium. Of course, he is. Not that I begrudge him. I’d have done the same in his place. When it comes to money, it’s an unspoken rule amongst us to keep the transactions fair for all concerned. Helps preserve the spirit of our friendship. The fact that all of them had dropped what they were doing and rushed here when I’d messaged them is testament to that.
"Whassup?" Sinner drawls from the chair he’s sprawled in. "Something got your panties in a twist, Beauchamp?"
"Maybe." I lean forward on the balls of my feet. No way, can I sit down at the moment. First, seeing Karina trying on a wedding gown. Then, the encounter with the bum who quoted poetry? Fuck, what the hell is wrong with this city? Could someone who is clearly educated and well-spoken actually end up on the streets? Or does he simply prefer that lifestyle? If he does, well sure, I'm not going to judge. Still, it’s peculiar, to say the least.
"Arpad?" Edward prompts, from where he’s seated in the chair across from me. The only straight-backed chair in the room and he’d chosen it. Given a choice, the Father prefers to avoid material comfort of any kind. Sometimes, I think he does it simply to punish himself.
"What’s on your mind, Beauchamp?" Damian frowns from where he’s perched on the writing desk in the corner. "Your text sounded like you needed to talk things out?"
"Yeah," I roll my shoulders, "I, uh, saw Karina today."
"What the hell—?" Edward frowns. "Thought we’d agreed that you’d give her space."
I glower back at him. "My exact words, as I recall, were that I wouldn’t stalk her, or spy on her; whatever I did, it would be in the open."
"So, you didn’t stalk her?" he growls.
"I may have followed her from a distance."
"You didn’t spy on her?" He purses his lips.
"I, uh, may have peered into a shop that she went into."
"What the hell?" Edward’s jaw firms. "You complete moron. You realize you’re acting like a complete twat, don’t you?"
"Wait, hold on," I raise my hands, "I had a good reason."
"Can’t wait to hear it." Saint blows out a breath. He exchanges glances with Weston, who shakes his head.
"And if you two exchange more money and go on about that bet, I swear, I am going to cut you out of the next round of very lucrative investments I have lined up."
"Easy, ol’ chap," Saint mutters, "we’re simply concerned about you. All that stress? It’s not good for the ticker." He taps his chest. "On the other hand, it’s a sign that you’re invested in this relationship, which I believe is a positive."
