Page 132 of Fiery Romance

I glare at him.

Then I look down.

I didn’t get steak.

I ordered steak—or more correctly, Byron ordered for me.

But it’s not what I have.

On my plate is a perfect cut of fish with the top layer crisp and brown the way I like it. Pasta with a creamy sauce beneath. Bread—because I’m obsessed with bread—tilted perfectly at the side.

It’s a meal I would have ordered for myself if I could.

And Clay knew.

Clay got it for me.

My chest rises and falls.

I hate him.

Despise him.

I’d stab his eye out with my butter knife if it didn’t mean going to jail.

He arches an eyebrow and straightens. “Island. Byron, enjoy your meal.”

Byron points, jaw dropping in awe. “How does he know our names?”

I’m not sure who I want to smack first—the guy who’d empty out an entire restaurant, send his goons to block the door and drag his child into this ridiculous situation or the one who can’t tell that this is obviously a set up.

“Byron,” I force a smile, “could you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom.”

“Sure. Sure. Do you mind if I start eating though? I’m starving.”

My lips freeze in place. “Of course.”

As Byron digs in, I plop my napkin on the table, stab Clay with the most frigid stink eye in my arsenal of death glares and start walking.

It doesn’t take him long to find me.

I turn around and he’s there, his shoulders so broad that the only way to move past him would be to flatten my body to the wall and wiggle forward like a worm.

I slam a hand on my hip. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“Don’t feed me that bull, Clay,” I hiss.

He folds his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. It emphasizes his muscles and the cut of his chin. It brings my attention to his lips.

I remember the way those lips felt on mine, the way his tongue felt as it slipped along the seam of my mouth.

The flutters in my stomach move further south.

There goes my Clay-free night.

There goes any hope Byron had of being my date beyond tonight.

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