Luca drops his chin to his chest, shaking his head. “We’ve talked about this before, Hop.” He stops to kiss Ford’s cheek, then continues, “The billionaires don’t like it when you talk about your extracurricular activities in front of them.”
Hopper scratches his chin. “How can it be extracurricular when it’s my job?”
I crack up. “Never change, Hop. Never change.”
Hop wrinkles his nose. “Why do people keep saying that to me? Why would I ever change? I’m awesome.”
Another man joins us, and given the electricity crackling in the glance he exchanges with Hopper, it’s easy to guess who he is.
I stick out my hand. “Hey there, Agent Hughes. My name is Ant.”
Former FBI Agent—and current philanthropist billionaire—Liam Hughes grins as he nuzzles Hop’s temple. “No wonder Hop is so excited. He’s talked about nothing else today.”
Luca excuses himself to the kitchen and Hopper leads us into a breathtaking library.
“Holy fuckballs,” I curse under my breath as I take in the gorgeous floor-to-ceiling books and honest-to-God green-felt poker table.
Erik laughs at my reaction. “These folks don’t kid around on poker night.”
“No shit.”
I curse again when I recognize some of the people in the room. I mean, yes, Hop told me they play with billionaires, but I thought he may have been exaggerating.
“Oh my God. You’re the guy who told off the owner of that sporting goods business,” I say while pointing at the guy in question.
“Joe,” he says, grinning broadly, “and this—”
“—is the guy you were yelling at! Wolfe something-or-other!”
They share a look and then…a kiss.
“It’s true,” Joe says in a thick Brooklyn accent, looking deeply into his man’s eyes. “Then I went and married him.”
“Rand,” his husband says, reaching across to shake my hand. “And for the record, I deserved it.”
Just like that, the nerves I’ve had about meeting all these fancy people go away. Erik said New Orleans’ stuff makes me a multimillionaire, so…I guess that means I’m among peers?
While I’m still gaping at everyone, a tall, stern-looking guy stands and directs us to two open chairs. He and Erik exchange a nod, and I crack up.
Erik hip-checks me. “What?”
“He’s like your long-lost brother or something.”
“We don’t look anything alike.”
“Yeah, but you both have that same disapproving look.”
“We’re not disapproving,” the guy says, breaking his silence. “We’re observant. Vigilant for the people we care about.”
Erik leans in. “If you think he and I are so much alike, you should check out his husband,” he says, pointing to the short, dark-brown guy sitting next to him.
“Ugh. Ignore these two,” says the man in question. “They’re both so serious. He’s Anthony, and I’m Mads, by the way.” He gets up and shakes my hand and…huh. Our accents are different, and I’m a little shorter than he is, but physically, we’re pretty damn similar.
“I like your jacket,” I say, admiring the lime-green puffer. “Bold fashion choice for the middle of summer.”
“Thank you,” he says, wrapping himself in the noisy fabric. “These two make fun of me all the time.”
Mads and I roll our eyes and both mumblewhatever.
