Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLOVER
Two weeks of living with a hundred-pound dog and a bodyguard in a tank have taught me three things.
One, Wrecks has no concept of personal space and will eat literally anything.
Two, Chief has become the mayor of my front lawn.
Three, Valen Stone is a man who thrives on order—which makes the arrival of his chaotic family as close to emotional warfare as he allows himself to get.
“How many people did you say were coming?” My arm is wrapped tightly around the rope of my porch swing as a convoy of vehicles pulls up to my curb. And by convoy, I mean a small army of well-dressed businessmen. They’ve apparently decided to invade my little corner of Happiness, Georgia.
“Three,” Valen says through gritted teeth. He’s standing on my porch—he’s been standing on my porch every morning for two weeks like clockwork, coffee in hand, looking like a Brooks Brothers ad that wandered into a Heartmark movie. “Grant, Chase, and Sterling. That’s it.”
“They’re here,” Chief shouts, stating the obvious from the rocking chair he sweet-talked Braxton into setting up for him on my front lawn. For some reason, he also has Pothole’s leash tied to it, and I hope someone plans on cleaning up the pig mess, because that’s not a job I want to take on.
Agnes’s potbellied pig has somehow become a shared pet on R&R Road, but I have no desire to take a turn.
I frown as the doors of two more cars open. “Then who are those other people?”
His jaw tightens. “The Harrington family’s personal security.”
Roman appears beside him, also holding a mug of coffee from my kitchen. He’s always so serious, but there’s a tilt to his lips that makes me think he finds this all amusing. “I told them to rent a bus. Did they listen? No. Grant had to bring his own security detail.”
Is it normal for a CEO of a banking empire to travel with his own security?
“You could’ve warned me they were bringing all this,” Valen mutters.
“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, you know what’s on Grant’s plate.”
Ooh, so Grant is mysterious. Maybe he’s a superspy or an undercover operative. Oh! Maybe he’s the head of a secret society who does deliciously dark deeds to save innocents.
Valen’s rumble of laughter has me jolting out of the safety of my fictional worlds—the place my mind drifts to when reality is more than I can handle.
I blink feverishly when I realize he’s now crouched down in front of me, his hands on my thighs, grounding me to the present. “Still telling stories in your secret garden, Honeybee?”
My lashes touch my brow line, and my mouth gaps like a fish. “D-did I say all that? Out loud?”
His smile could stop wars.
“And—and you remember? You remember that I…”
The beautiful smile slips from his full lips, and his eyes lose focus. “You made up stories when Terra’s gaslighting was too much. You locked yourself away in the safety of your mind. You made up different endings to fight off the mental manipulation.”
He does remember. At least some of it. “Yes,” I whisper.
His fingers press into my thighs, welcome pressure that regulates my pulse. This close, I can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw. His thumb moves—just once, a small stroke against my leg—and blood whooshes in my ears.
“I do remember that…now,” he says.
Progress. That has to be progress, right?
“Well, ain’t that sweet.” Pops voice cuts through the moment like a bullhorn. He winks at me, but Valen pulls his hands back as though he’s been burned.
I immediately miss his warmth.
“Trust me, Honeybee.” The corner of Valen’s lips tilt up. He’s teasing me. “Grant is too strait-laced for any deliciously dark deeds.”
“Ah, you heard that, huh?”
Death by embarrassment, here I come.
“I did.” Happiness slowly lifts his entire face as he stands, and I’m trying very hard not to laugh. “I can’t wait to hear what other…thoughts you have inside that beautiful head of yours.”
Swoon. Blush. Breathe.
Valen Stone thinks I’m beautiful, and the rush of confidence that roars through my body makes me feel almost…powerful.
A loud bang has me jumping in my seat, and he places his hand on my shoulder, as though he felt my unease through the airwaves. Maybe I should see Dr. Callaway again. Valen’s touch should not be the one thing that grounds me—too many years have passed.
“Jesus, Chase,” Valen growls. “Do you have to pound on everything you see?”
“Just checking to see how solid this thing is.” The man speaking is an exact replica of Roman. In fact, I do a double take to make sure I’m not seeing things.
Valen told me they were identical triplets when we were young. Seeing it in person is an entirely different beast.
Roman is still on my porch, and there are two more Romans and one almost-Roman standing next to Valen’s tank—his home for the last two stinking weeks. I refuse to call it a mobile command center, no matter how often Roman insists.
My gaze drifts back to the Harringtons, but Valen never leaves my side, so I just stare at these men who look like they’ve never followed a schedule a day in their lives that wasn’t of their own making.
One of the triplets stands out from the rest. His hair is a touch too long, so it falls playfully into his eyes, and he wears a perma-grin that’s the epitome of a playboy. He may as well have “trouble” tattooed to his forehead—he’d make a great hero in a story.
“There you are.” A tall man with dark hair and the kind of polished confidence that likely gets him whatever he wants glides up the steps with practiced grace, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my car.
I recognize him. Grant Harrington. I met him and Roman at Greyson’s charity event recently.
“We’ve been texting you.” Grant wraps Valen in a one-armed man hug.
“I’ve been right here, Grant. Here or in the tank.”
“The what now?” Grant looks at the matte black vehicle taking up my driveway and laughs.
“Roman really built the apocalypse van. This is perfect.” He pulls Valen into a real hug this time.
It looks more like a wrestling match, and the moment strikes me hard.
This is who Valen is with his family—it’s a side of him I never got to know.
“Admit it. You’re living in a tank on a civilian’s lawn like some kind of vigilante superhero.”
I snort-laugh before I can stop myself. All three men turn to look at me. Grant’s expression shifts immediately, as though he hadn’t really noticed me before. Gone is the playful big brother, and in his place is a protector who can turn on seriously scary vibes with a blink of his eye.
I don’t care what Valen says, there’s more to Grant than a simple distinguished banker.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll just—” I gesture vaguely toward my door, not sure what I want to say, just knowing I need to escape.
“Clover.” Valen says my name like it’s important, and I really need to get my shit together. This is one story I can’t afford to fictionalize in my mind—my heart can’t take it. “This is my cousin Grant. Grant, this is Clover Danforth.”
Grant’s gaze sweeps over me with a cautious, brotherly assessment, then settles into something kind. “We’ve met. It’s nice to see you again, Clover.”
“I’m…yes. You too.”
“The Clover.” He glances at Valen, who’s shaking his head with a very firm no. “Right. Well, it really is a pleasure to see you again.” He extends his hand, and when I take it, his grip is surprisingly gentle. “Thank you for letting my cousin park a tank on your property.”
“It’s not like I actually had a choi—” Two more men bound up the steps.
One of them, the playboy, has an easy grin and moves as though he’s never met a rule he couldn’t bend. The other is adjusting his glasses and studying my house like he’s calculating structural integrity.
“You must be Clover,” the playful one says. “I’m Chase. That’s Sterling.” He gestures to the guy with glasses. “We’re the fun brothers.”
“We’re the younger brothers,” Sterling corrects with dry humor lacing every word.
“Roman got the face, but we got all the personality,” Chase finishes for his brother. It’s…unnerving.
“I have personality,” Roman says flatly.
“You have the personality of a robot,” Chase shoots back with a grin. “You couldn’t have fun if your life depended on it.”
Roman doesn’t even blink. “You wouldn’t survive a day in my job.”
“Because your job is boring.” Chase winks at me, and a giggle lodges in my chest. I’ve never actually seen triplets in person before. It’s…fascinating.
“My job keeps people alive,” Roman grumbles.
“Like I said, boring.” It’s obvious Chase thrives on teasing his brothers. You can see it in the way his eyes spark every time he gets a reaction out of Roman.
Grant clears his throat. “Are you two done?”
Honestly, I’m thankful for the interference because Roman and Chase moved, and now I’ve lost track of who’s who.
“Never.” That has to be Chase. “So, Clover. You’re the reason our cousin’s been living in a driveway for two weeks? I have to say, you’re much prettier than the people he usually protects.”
My cheeks flush red as I scan my escape routes that are currently blocked by this insanely hot family.
“Chase,” Valen warns.
“What? I’m complimenting her.”
“You’re making her uncomfortable,” Valen says. A silent conversation happens between the two of them, but the buzzing in my chest subsides.
Strange.
Regret fills Chase’s expression. “Sorry, Clover. I didn’t mean—I just meant you seem nice. And we’ve been so excited to meet you. For fucking years. And I’m happy to see that Valen remembers how much he likes you. That means we can all continue liking you too. Oof.”
Sterling pulls his elbow out of Chase’s side. “Stop. Talking.”
“I’m being friendly—”