Page 22 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
Wolfe stares at his feet. “I believe you’ve sufficiently made your point.”
I bite my lip, a little regretful over pouring salt on the wound. Just as I open my mouth to make a peace offering, a short, portly man appears at my side, like some sort of djinn.
“Sir, may I get you something to drink?”
I stifle a surprised shout, but it’s a near thing. He’s English, or something close to it.
“I don’t suppose you have anything decent in an Italian red?” I ask, belatedly fitting my arms back through the sleeves of my coverall, feeling underdressed in such a fancy space. The coveralls, unfortunately, only serve to widen the distinction between me and the extravagant luxury around me.
The man’s smile is warm and genuine, not put on for show. Another surprise in the Wolfe’s lair. “Sir, I can promise you a beautiful red wine, and Mr. Wolfe’s selection from Italy is pure perfection. Is there a particular varietal that you enjoy?”
“I like everything, but I suspect you already have a favorite.”
He dips his chin, and I realize I’m expecting a billionaire to have his help dressed in…I don’t know, tails? Some kind of suit? This gentleman is wearing nice but practical shoes, sharply pressed jeans, and a soft Henley that gently hugs his round stomach.
“That I do. I’ll bring it up right away.”
The promise of wine makes me realize exactly how tense I am and how much I’m looking forward to whatever alcohol this man brings me. Hell, it could be Boone’s Farm at this point, and I’d take it.
Forgive me, Nonna, for I have sinned.
“Thank you…I seem to have missed your name,” I say, embarrassed that thirty seconds into having access to a butler, I’ve ignored his humanity.
He beams at me as though maybe I’ve accidentally done something right. Or maybe the stuck-up rich people don’t care about his name. “Grayson, sir.”
I’m not sure if that’s his first or last name, but it’s no skin off my nose to call the man by the name he’s given me. “Grayson. Thank you.”
He grins again then disappears somewhere over in the kitchen, which I can only partially see from the main living area. I turn and nearly startle again as I run into Wolfe. He’s looking at me through wide navy-blue eyes, his head tilted.
“What?” I ask, zipping up my coverall.
“Grayson likes you.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t like anybody I bring here.”
“Are they all like the assholes who were just in your apartment five minutes ago?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, that’s why. I’m not an asshole.”
“I’d contest that, but you did save my life today. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“At great personal cost.” A statement. Not a question.
“It appears that way, yes.”
“And I’m guessing it’s my fault.”
I raise my brows, impressed that he found his way to some semblance of personal responsibility. Shaking my head, I scoff. A sound I’m sure is completely foreign within these carefully crafted walls.
“What? Say it,” he demands, a challenge in his eyes. Like maybe he wants me to take him down a notch.
In another context, that would be very enjoyable indeed, but today I’m just a guy wearing dirty coveralls in a fancy place.
