Page 129 of Fiery Romance

“Want me to order for you?”

An eyebrow pops. “I’m intrigued.” Folding the menu closed, I set my freshly-done acrylic nails on it and give him an inviting smile. “Surprise me.”

Byron chooses the ribs and potatoes platter, which makes me internally wince because I’m not much of a steak girl.

But it’s not like I expect him to know that.

Even though I’ve mentioned it during our chats online…

No. I’m not sabotaging this oversteakof all things. Byron isn’t a mind reader and most men don’t remember tiny details that well anyway.

When the waiter walks off, I fold my hands under my chin. “So Byron, you’re a realtor, right?”

“I am.”

“They say realtors are the new DJs.”

He unleashes a charming smile and runs his fingers over his beard. “Now why wouldtheysay that?”

“You tell me.” I tilt my head to the side.

“Really? Oh okay.”The conversation from the table nearest to us catches my attention.

I glance up and see the waiter showing a couple to the door.

Alarm bells start ringing in my head.

Perturbed, I sit straight up and look around. My breath gets trapped in my throat.

What in the…

The restaurant is almost entirely empty.

Trying not to panic, I whisper, “Byron, when did people start leaving? Did we miss a fire drill?”

“I didn’t hear one,” he says with an equally confused expression. “I did notice the people behind us getting up and leaving a few minutes ago, but I thought they were just finished with their food.”

I narrow my eyes in suspicion, especially when the last patrons in the restaurant get up and leave.

There’s absolutelynoway everyone—every single diner—would all magically want to get out of the building at the same time. And there’s no way this place wouldn’t be seating new guests too.

I crumple my napkin and stand abruptly. “Byron, let’s go.”

“What happened?” He gives me a frightened look. “You don’t think we stepped into one of those weird horror hotels, do you?”

“No, even worse.”

We stepped into Clay Bolton’s powerful clutches.

I grab my purse and slide out of my chair, but before I can take a step toward the door, I see Mr. P and Mr. J marching up the stairs and blocking the restaurant’s front doors.

The hostess walks across the lobby and turns the sign over from ‘open’ to ‘closed’.

My eyebrows knot with unease.

This feels very rehearsed.

“Sir, ma’am,” the waiter arrives with our drinks, “you can sit back down.”

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