Page 17 of Ms. Fortune

What the hell have I gotten myself into? Did he seriously order his legal team to get a restraining order for Louie Calnetta? This is surreal. He snaps his fingers, and the world moves for him. I can’t imagine wielding or even having that kind of power. While I am beyond annoyed that he thinks he can steamroll over anyone that pisses him off, I have to admit to myself I also kind of like the idea he’s doing it for me. There’s something about a man taking control of a situation when you just don’t want to and fixing the problem without having to ask.

The fierceness in his eyes when he says he won’t let anyone fuck with me flips a switch in me. He’s still holding my hand, and as his intensity rises as he speaks, he grips my fingers that much tighter. It’s almost too intense. I wriggle my fingers a little to loosen his grip, and he must notice he’s holding on too tight because he reluctantly releases my hand. I don’t know what to make of any of this. It’s too much.

“I think I need to go home.” I’m still unsure how I feel about what I’ve agreed to tonight, and I need to be somewhere without Brandon distracting me to let it all sink in. His close proximity, intense eyes, and hand-holding are clouding my thoughts. “Can you take me back to my car, please?”

Disappointment clouds his face, but he nods, signaling for the check. “Of course.” His phone buzzes on the table, and a crease forms between his brows when he sees the screen. “Taylor, what’s up?”

The intensity is back, and his jaw sets in a hard line. Whatever Taylor is saying isn’t making him happy. When he hangs up, he scrubs his hands down his face and suddenly appears tired. Definitely not happy.

“What’s wrong?” He’s avoiding my eyes, and that is a red flag.

He lets out a deep sigh. “It’s started already. I thought we’d be able to dictate the pace of things, but the press has other ideas.”

“The press?” I don’t understand what the press has to do with anything yet. We haven’t done anything press-worthy.

“The vultures are congregating in the parking lot. Apparently, somebody dining here saw us and spread the story on social media.” He shakes his head in disgust. “This place is usually safe from prying eyes. I’m sorry this is starting so soon.”

Maria comes by with a sad smile and lays a gentle hand on my arm. “Cara mia, let’s get you both through the kitchen to the back door, bene?”

I nod and follow her to the kitchen, Brandon behind me with a hand protectively on the small of my back. He’s keeping close as if he’ll shield me from an attack. It’s both appreciated but unsettling. I don’t like the idea I need protection from anything.

I find a familiar face as we approach the back door, but he’s not flashing a toothy scowl tonight. Randall stands alert, head on a swivel surveying the surrounding area. Beyond the exit is a limo only a few feet away with a door open. Randall positions himself on the other side of the car’s open door, creating a privacy corridor.

“Duck lower than the top of the car door,” Brandon whispers in my ear, his breath jostling my hair and tickling my neck.

I do as he instructs and bend low as I step into the limousine, Brandon right behind me.

“Girl, what have you gone and gotten yourself into?”

I glance at the front of the car and see Bianca in the driver's seat, smirking at me in the rearview mirror. Of course, this is a Mischief Motors limo. She gives me a coy wink when our eyes meet.

“That’s a great question, Bianca,” I smirk back at her. “Can we get out of here, please?”

“Yes, boss.” She salutes me in the mirror as Randall gets in next to her, and the divider slides up once we start moving.

As we make our way through the parking lot to the main road, I’m amazed at how many photographers there actually are, waiting for a glimpse of Brandon. I count at least ten.

“Wow. Do you ever get used to that?”

He’s been staring at his phone and not paying attention to the paparazzi. He glances up and gives the crowd a brief once over, indifferent to their existence. “What? Oh, yeah, you do get used to it. Eventually.” His voice is flat, no longer the intense and passionate man of a few minutes ago.

I get the feeling something more than the press is bothering him, but I don’t want to get into a deep conversation with Brandon about anything right now. I’m still sorting through the fact I just had to sneak out the back of a restaurant I’ve been to many times in my life without incident.

After a few minutes of riding in silence, I notice we’re not heading back to the depot. I do not need another surprise tonight.

“Where are we going?” I don’t know why I think Brandon will know this information, he’s been with me the entire time, and neither of us has been told anything.

“Taking you home.” A sadness drips from his voice, and he hasn’t torn his eyes away from the passing scenery since we started moving.

“But what about my car?” I need my car to get back to work tomorrow.

“Expect to be driven around from now on.”

“What? Why? I have a perfectly good car.” It’s happening slowly, but the magnitude of tonight’s events is dawning on me. I think I’m in denial, though.

“I’m sorry, Normandy.” His sad eyes meet mine, and I can plainly see he means what he’s saying. “Like I said, I thought we’d be able to manage the pace of this, but it’s gotten ahead of me. I don’t know how, but it did.” He looks away again, his brows furrowing in anger now. He’s mad at himself.

My heart, which has been racing since getting up from our table, finally begins to slow down. Knowing he’s as upset about this as I am is a comfort, albeit a small one. Of course, I wouldn’t be in this situation if not for him, so there’s that too.

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