Page 33 of The Activist and Her Billionaire

The cameras go off, but Adrianne hisses an order at them.

“Do not,” she growls, “publish that.”

She eyes me, and I am scowling, beyond livid at her antics.

“I just thought it would be fun,” she gushes, taking my arm in hers as we stroll cozily close. “You seemed to enjoy it when your little chippie did it.”

Stopping at the restaurant entrance, she turns to me and waits, a questioning look on her face. I glint at her wickedly. She wants me to get the door, and I do not intend to.

“Fine,” she huffs and releases my arm as she reaches for the door. It’s heavy, and her heels slide a bit on the pea gravel pavement. I relent. I reach over her head and open the door for both of us.

“You always get your way, don’t you?” I mutter.

The hostess asks, “Would you like to be seated outside or in?”

Adrianne and I respond at the same time but give different answers.

“In,” I say firmly.

She looks at me like I am torturing her. I stoop down and get in her face.

“You just bombed the internet in real-time with a false impression,” I said. “I don’t want it to happen again. We’re going to sit down and have a conversation.”

I held the chair for her this time, ordering her to sit down.

“I haven’t been straight with you because you are difficult,” I begin. “But my private life is none of your business. You cannot throw a tantrum because I am not interested in you as anything other than an investor. You and I have a contract, and that is all we have.”

Her face, made up for bright outdoor lighting, looks chalky and overpainted up close. I almost feel sorry for her, knowing she did not expect this.

“You will not emotionally blackmail me,” I say bluntly. “And if you do pull any more bullshit, I will just fund the fucking deal myself and keep all the profits. I don’t need your money to do this deal.”

“You wouldn’t,” she squeals, doing her best imitation of a five-year-old girl.

“Oh yes, I would. Don’t tempt me.”

“Our project is horribly delayed,” she says, switching her voice from helpless and high-pitched to a deep growl. “And it’s because you have a conflict of interest with that trouble-making activist.”

“No!” I slam that table. “To start with, it’s only been two days since I sent Rory off the job – not two weeks or two months. Next, I am not calling off Rory and his bulldozer because I am crazy about her. I halted the work because I had no choice. I have no intention of being fined or risk having the project disapproved.”

“She’s figuring out ways to throw up roadblocks. Her latest claim is that her uncle had dementia at the time Brody approached him. She also claims that there was a recorded will, which she will use in a separate action to buy even more time. I am not coaching her to do anything.”

“Crazy about her?” Adrianne mocks me. “What, are you in high school? Enjoy your free peek at her boobs while negotiating with her tied to the porch? Yes, I know how she protested naked to save the inn.”

“You say that like you and I are a thing,” I sigh. “And that I cheated on you. You are beginning to sound delusional. Tell me now if you can conduct business wearing your big girl pants from here on out, or we amicably part ways.”

“I am not discussing Brynne anymore with you,” I say. “Or our history. As for the inn, she and I are business adversaries. I have to say she’s handling the situation far more graciously than you, and you are my partner.”

“If you like gracious, I’ll give you gracious,” she mutters under her breath.

“Great. Let’s try that hat on for a while,” I say. “See how it fits.”

We pause. The server must have felt the tension between us because she stayed away the entire time. I motion for her and even make a joke.

“It’s safe now,” I say, and she laughs.

“I was wonderin’,”

“What will you have, Adrianne?” I ask.

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