Page 51 of The Elusive Billionaire
We manage to walk for almost fifteen minutes without me falling. It’s a new record.
“What the hell are you two doing out here?”
I recognize the Irish brogue, and my head snaps in a full circle, trying to locate Cian. I find him about twenty yards to theleft of us, and just as I’m about to run, Grey grabs me by the shoulders to hold me in place.
“Don’t even think about running. The last thing I need is you breaking a leg out here.” Grey’s words are a hypnotic warning, his breath is warm against my ear, causing a shiver to overtake my limbs.
“Question is, if you’re here, why have we been cut off from all communications?” Grey directs the question to Cian, but his gaze and hands remain on me.
“Christ on a turd loaf.” Cian’s cursing always makes me chuckle.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to curse anymore?” I tease, knowing full well that his wife, Elle, has put a moratorium on swearing since they brought Keela home from the hospital.
“Mind your own damn business,” he mutters. “I knew this cockamamie idea was rubbish.”
The smile slips from my face.
“Cian,” I warn. “What are you talking about?”
“Fecking bubbletwits. Come on. I’ll take you to town, but I’m warning ya, it’s as loony as I’ve ever seen it.”
He motions for us to follow him to the ATV that’s parked beneath a line of trees. Grey keeps his hand on my upper arm until we’re seated.
“What’s going on, Cian?” If my hands weren’t covered in muck, I would be biting the hell out of my thumbnail right now.
His sad frown falls to mine. “Just remember, their plan was to protect you both, and their hearts are in the right place, even if they’ve lost their damn minds.”
He starts the ATV and hits the gas. With no windows or walls, I’m assaulted by fast-moving air as he maneuvers the thing through the mud, effectively cutting off any meaningful communication.
By the time we reach town, it feels as though we’ve entered another world. While Grey and I were stranded, the rest of Happiness appears to have doubled in size.
Emergency vehicles line main street, with pop-up tents littering the sidewalks, but structurally, the town itself is unharmed.
“Most of the damage is superficial, but Stillwater was almost completely destroyed,” Cian shouts above the ATV’s noise. Stillwater is the next town over and even smaller than Happiness. “The hurricane lost steam after surrounding the woods by Pride Peak and your place, but FEMA’s here, and we’ve been taking a census of locals while searching for Stillwater residents. West of Bitter Creek was hit the hardest, while everything from Envy’s Edge on is untouched, so most of this is for Stillwater.” He shifts gears and presses on the gas, but not before something catches my eye.
“Did that sign say Rent-a-Womb?” Grey rumbles, his voice like thunder, cutting through the air like a knife.
I tilt my head toward him, but whatever else he says is lost to the wind tunnel we’re in. His face, on the other hand, tells a thousand stories, and none of them are good.
Turning back to the town as we pass by, I catch sight of another sign that reads: We Vote Real Love.
No. No, no, no. This can’t be good.
On the corner of Main Street and Joy Junction are picket-style signs.Savvy Monroe for Town Sweetheart. Rent-a-Womb or Mistress-of-Doom. Vote for Love.
By the time Cian pulls into the parking lot of the Hideaway, Madi’s inn, my head is spinning with all the ways my day is about to implode.
“Why are so many people here?” Grey asks, jumping down from the ATV and standing at my side.
“Emergency shelter has been set up at the Chug.” Right. Madi’s coworking space is the perfect venue for that. “And this is a private business, so it keeps out…” Cian pulls on his neck and won’t make eye contact.
“Keeps out who, Cian?” Grey demands.
“The media. You fecking fools are magnets for that shite, I swear. Just get inside, would ya, before someone sees ya.”
Grey ushers me up the front steps, his movements mechanical as he takes in our surroundings. Even after almost a week, I’m still not used to seeing him in casual clothing.
The second he opens the door, I inhale the scent of sugar and spice—the result of years’ worth of daily cookie baking that even a full renovation couldn’t erase—and hear an argument. A rather loud argument that suddenly falls silent when we step over the threshold, looking as though we’ve been wrestling in the mud.
