Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
GREYSON
“Tell me again why we’re here?” Brax asks before pulling a nine iron from his golf bag.
It’s been two weeks of us living at the Hideaway, and we’re no closer to any solutions.
“Press,” I grumble.
Truth is, I’m not any happier to be hosting this charity golf tournament or the gala later tonight than he is, but Quinn swears that Kristen, the crisis PR guru she hired, is the best and has insisted on more public-facing appearances to overshadow the news of Savvy’s past and my new “elusive billionaire” moniker.
Since we’ve been unable to prove that Quinn is selling secrets, we’re going along with her schemes—for now—and that includes listening to this Kristen woman, all while feeding Quinn purposefully misleading information.
We’ll catch the person responsible, even if it’s the one person in our company that I trusted almost as much as Braxton to have our backs.
For our golf outing today, two brothers from North Carolina, Grant and Roman Harrington, round out our foursome.
I recognize their names, and they’re likely here because I haven’t responded to any of their requests for a meeting.
That’s why I hate these things, but the situation called for it.
And it’ll bring in much-needed money for the Stillwater relief efforts.
Brax has taken his daily acts of kindness to whole new heights since working on his Discreet Daily Deeds venture full-time, but this will be next-level, even for him.
As Grant, the oldest Harrington brother, approaches us, Brax mutters under his breath. “I’d rather be one of the drink cart girls with Madi and Sav.”
The reminder that Savvy is riding around in a beer cart wearing a tiny fucking golf dress has me tugging on my collar. That wasn’t my idea either. If one person even glances at her sideways, I’ll probably end up in jail.
“Braxton, Grey. Nice to meet you.” Grant holds his hand out to Brax first.
“Finally,” Roman growls. Up close, these two could be twins. The Harrington genes are strong.
“Time is money, gentlemen. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” These assholes are at the top of the food chain in our social network, but their business dealings are more…varied since their father died.
Instead of focusing solely on the banking industry, they’ve pivoted their wealth to security of every kind over the last ten years—it’s a curious choice, but they’ve given no statements for their reasoning. Privacy, at least, is something I can admire.
“We drove through the parts of Stillwater that were accessible before coming here,” Grant says, steering us to safer topics. “The destruction is truly unthinkable. I’m not sure you can fully comprehend that kind of damage without seeing it with your own eyes.”
“It is,” Brax agrees. “We’d like to raise a lot of money today. We’re hoping to commit to rebuilding 100 homes in 100 days.”
When Brax stepped down as CEO of Omni-Reyes, it was so he could focus on what he truly cared about—giving back. We now fully fund Discreet Daily Deeds, a nonprofit, so he can do just that.
The golf tournament falls into his domain, and he’s damn good at it. He’s much better at shmoozing for money than I am.
I prefer to write a check and walk away.
“We have a check made out for a million dollars,” Roman says. He carries an air of impatience with him, and he strikes me as someone who prefers to get his hands dirty rather than play golf. “What do you say we skip the golf and hit the bar?”
It’s like he read my damn mind.
Perhaps I judged these men too quickly.
Taking a practice swing with my club, I grunt in agreement. “Trust me, I’d like to. But we have obligations here that require our presence.”
“Photo ops,” he grumbles.
“Exactly.”
Braxton and Grant pair off, leaving me with Roman, and at the moment, I can’t say I’m all that upset by it. The thought of getting a hard sell from Grant for the next six hours is enough to make me want to hit myself over the head with my clubs.
“Care to tell me where the media kits are set up?” Roman asks. He’s staring through binoculars at the next hole, and he must see the press junket waiting for us.
“All even holes,” I grumble, then line up and hit my ball down the fairway.
“All nine of them?” He lowers the binoculars to glare at me. “What the hell kind of shit did you land in, Reyes?”
I wipe off the head of my driver to avoid facing him. Only someone who’s been through this would understand the duplicitous nature of doing a good deed in exchange for social proof of goodness.
“Oh, right.” He snaps his fingers in a way that tells me he knew all along exactly the PR debacle we’re currently in. “You know, DeVane isn’t someone you want to get involved with.”
My driver lands in my golf bag with so much force it nearly bounces out.
“I’m not getting involved with DeVane. DeVane is part of my fiancée’s past.” I snap my lips shut. Why am I even telling him this?
“I know,” he says cryptically. “It’s a shame she’s being dragged through this. She seems like a nice girl.”
I don’t ask him where he met her, even though the question sits on the tip of my tongue with venomous acidity.
“I’ve got it under control, Harrington.”
“If you say so, Reyes.”
He takes his sweet time joining me in the golf cart, but the moment his ass touches the seat, I hit the gas and don’t speak while I race to the second hole.
When we arrive, Brax and Grant are already in front of cameras. I’m starting to regret not having Braxton as a partner. I feel ill-prepared for these vipers, and it’s not something I’m comfortable with.
I’m always prepared.
As soon as Roman and I step up behind our brothers, the questions start, and the crowd moves closer. Braxton and Grant back away and allow us to take center stage.
Within moments, the civilized reporters turn into raging lunatics, all crushing each other to get as close as possible.
“Greyson, how do you feel about being called ‘the elusive billionaire’?”
“Greyson, it’s your first scandal since the death of your sister. What do you think she’d have to say about your future bride?”
“Did you meet Savannah in a strip club?”
“Is this a ‘Pretty Woman’ love story?”
Jesus Christ, these people are idiots.
Roman is the one to step in front of the podium with his hands spread wide, an angry tilt to his lips that can’t quite be classified as a smile. “Back up, or we’re done here.”
“Don’t lose yer cool, mate.” Cian steps up beside me, and I do a double take.
“What are you doing here, and what the fuck are you wearing?” He’s in head-to-toe Hawaiian prints, and his top doesn’t even match the bottoms.
“If you think I’m letting Elle roam around in that tiny fecking dress you gave her without me standing guard, then you’re a bubbletwit too,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t give them those dresses. The PR lady did.”
“Who’s this shite?” Cian nods his head toward Roman.
“Not as bad as I originally thought,” I admit.
“All right, then. Keep yer cool. Savvy’s keeping hers even with these feckers after her.”
“They’re not supposed to be heckling her. The press is for golfers only.”
“Ya think that matters to these ass goblins? That Quinn person said the same thing, and yet Sav’s cart has had a steady stream of oxygen thieves for the past hour.”
“Cian.” I pinch the bridge of my nose while Roman answers some generic question about a pop star their security company is charged with guarding. “Your vocabulary never fails to astound me.” Lowering my voice, I ask, “Is she okay? How’s she handling the pressure?”
“She hasn’t punched anyone yet, so better than I’d’a done. Pops is keeping them on their toes, so it’s possible he’s confusing them enough with his own questions that they haven’t hit too hard yet.”
“Having her here was a mistake.”
“I agree. You sure that Kristen woman’s the best at what she does? I wanted to tell her to feck off outta here at least twenty times already.”
“Yeah. Quinn sent me her CV.” I undo the top button of my golf shirt. “Cian, can you…do me a favor?”
He claps me on the back so hard I’ll feel the sting for days.
“Already doin’ it. Moose and I are taking turns keeping tabs on all four women.
Only stepped over here ’cause it looked like you might need a bodyguard.
” He points to Roman. “Not as good as I’d have done, but better than nothing.
” He smirks, then retreats to wherever the girls are.
At least they must be close by. This is going to be a long-ass day.
I find Braxton at the second stand with a few old-school reporters patiently waiting their turn, while I’m stuck with the rabid ones of the social media age who wouldn’t know how to wait for something if their life depended on it.
With a sigh, I step up next to Roman, who raises his brow at me. I nod, then turn to the spectacle before us.
“I’ll only say this once.” My voice carries over their heads, and they fall silent, waiting for me to continue.
“If one of you disrespects my fiancée, you’ll not only be removed from the grounds, but you’ll be banned from working with any Omni-Reyes company for life.
I expect you to behave like humans instead of leeches and show some respect for the woman I love. ”
Roman chuckles beside me but then steps in as if he’s my press secretary and calls on reporters one at a time.
Obviously, he’s done this before.
“Here.” Roman hands me a flask.
We’re only at the ninth hole, and I’m covered in sweat. Not because it’s hot, though it is, but because I’m answering the same inane questions on repeat.
Reluctantly, I take a swig and instantly regret it. “What the hell is this, a snow cone soaked in rubbing alcohol?”
“Nah, watermelon moonshine.”
It’s so unexpected, I laugh. “Didn’t take you for a candy-coated paint-thinner-drink kind of guy.”
“I’m full of surprises, and this shit will knock you on your ass. That’s why I like it. A swig or two is just enough to take the edge off.”
“Thanks,” I say, shaking my head. The Harringtons are definitely full of surprises.
“Who decided where each reporter, and I use that term loosely, would be stationed?”
It’s an odd question to ask, but I take a moment to think about all angles before answering.
“I assume it’s the crisis PR agent, Kristen Richardson. Why?”
Roman has a habit of scanning everything around him as if he’s the FBI. Is it a work-related habit, or is he a paranoid fuck?
“It appears to me the most…aggressive aren’t assigned to any particular hole but are chasing down cart girls.”
Something hot and uncomfortable rushes in my veins. “How do you know that?”
Roman smiles, and now I can see how easily he can transform into the type of billionaire the tabloids love, except now I know he uses it as a mask.
“I’m in the business of safety, Grey. My clients’ and my family’s.
You think I’d be here if I didn’t strategically place my guys all over the course?
” He removes something from his ear—it’s no bigger than the tip of an eraser—shows it to me, then replaces it.
“My intel says the people questioning your fiancée are mostly disgruntled employees you let go when you shut down The Whisperloop.”
The Whisperloop was Braxton’s adoptive father’s media company that spread lies like gasoline on a fire.
I stare at him for a beat longer than necessary, but I can’t think of a single reason he’d lie about something like this.
“You want something,” I say as I pull my phone from my pocket. “What is it?”
Pulling up Savvy’s contact, I type out a text message.
Me: Are you okay? Do you need more security?
“I simply want you to keep an open mind about my family and keep us at the top of your list should the need ever arise.”
“The need for what?” I’m distracted as I wait for those three little dots to appear, telling me Savvy is replying to my message.
“Security,” Roman answers without a hint of emotion. “Personal, business, cyber. We do it all. And…we have a vested interest in what happens here in Happiness.”
That gets my attention. “Why is that?”
“It’s…” He pauses as though he’s listening to something I can’t hear. “A family matter, and not my story to tell. But I give you my word, we have no ill will or negativity toward you or your family. We simply need time.”
“I don’t respond to riddles, Roman.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m freely giving you information to do with what you will, and all I ask is that you keep an open mind and consider our expertise should the need ever arise. Now I know this is your event and all, but I think we should skip the next hole and find cart number four.”
I glance up at Brax and Grant giving each other shit at the tee, then back at Roman.
“Fuck it,” I say, pressing on the accelerator so our golf cart lurches forward. “Where is she?”
“Grey,” Brax shouts as we pass him, but I don’t release the pedal. If anything, I will the cart to go faster.