Page 13 of Kinks of a Billionaire
I fucking loved her parents. “I’ll see what I can figure out,” I assured them both right before Willow joined us, her face slightly flushed. She seemed agitated.
“Hey, you three,” she greeted us. “Why does it look like you’re up to something?”
“Because we are.” It felt right to speak the half-truth. The full truth would sound a little different:We’re trying to figure out how to snatch you away from that fucking asshat.
Willow grimaced, glancing around erratically. “Have you seen Stuart?”
“Oh, sweetheart, did you lose him already?” Mrs. Auclair questioned. Willow blushed a deeper crimson, her décolleté blotching, which was a sure sign of agitation.
“Maybe we should delay the wedding,” Mr. Auclair blurted.
“Don’t be silly, Papà.” Willow stopped looking around and her lips thinned. I followed her gaze to where Stuart appeared, his hair a mess. It took exactly five heartbeats before the verysame waitress appeared behind him, and my suspicion flared red hot.
Stuart staggered over and snaked a hand around Willow. She stiffened at my side, and my icy expression alone should have been enough to kill him on the spot. Much to my regret, it didn’t.
“Here you are,” he drawled. “I was looking for you.”
“You found me.” Willow couldn’t hide the apprehension in her body or voice, not from me and apparently not from her parents, who sneered at Stuart. They must have also seen him with the waitress and put two and two together.
“My parents want to speak to us,” he drawled, smiling like a fucking fool.
You’d be smiling like that too if she were marrying you, the devil on my shoulder whispered, but I promptly gagged him.
Willow flashed him a strained smile. “Let’s go, then.”
“Você não pode falar com eles mais tarde?Mal vimos você esta semana.” My Portuguese was rusty, but I could piece together enough to understand that Willow’s mother wanted more time with her—that neither of her parents had seen much of her this week. Mrs. Auclair wasn’t happy. Apparently the Harris bunch insisted Willow stay at the same hotel as them this week despite her parents having a house here.
“Desculpe, Mãe.” Willow reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand gently, her expression softening into one of reminiscence.
“Ah, Willy.” Fuck, I hated that nickname. Judging by their expressions, so did her parents, and so did Willow. “The correct way to pronounce it is de-co-lpe,” Stuart corrected her.
My shoulders stiffened.
“Willow’s Portuguese is as good as your English.” My tone was as dry as the Sahara Desert. “She’s fluent in both, so I’m fairly certain she knows the proper way to pronounce it.”
Willow smiled sweetly, her eyes narrowed on her future husband, and she added, “I like how you started Rosetta Stone this week and you’re an expert already.”
Obviously Stuart missed the heavy sarcasm in her tone because he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. I was shocked when Willow didn’t punch him, and instead rolled her eyes.
Then the asshole dared to squeeze her ass, and a growl vibrated in my throat. A goddamned growl. What the fuck was I? A dog? Nevertheless, I wanted to go for his jugular and tear him apart. Or maybe just shoot him and kidnap the bride.
Now that would liven this party up.
I tuned the rest of his slurred words out. As much as it would satisfy me, I couldn’t risk murdering him right here in broad daylight.
Willow’s vibrant green eyes darted to me, and instantly, all my focus was on her. She reached for my hand and squeezed it, whether in admonishment or asking if everything was okay, I didn’t know.
“Royce, you good?” she asked, settling my internal debate.
“Splendid,” I retorted wryly. “The better question is, Willow, areyouokay?”
Stuart snickered and I flicked him a glare, but before I could say anything else, he pulled her along.
“Mãe, want me to?—”
“Don’t worry about us,” Willow’s mother urged. “We’ll be okay here with Royce.”
“But if you need us, you know where we are,” her father chimed in.
