As we wandered into the main living room of Franklin Fairchild’s house, Rhys’s hand tightened reflexively in mine. A few of my colleagues and their partners were gathered, drinks in hand. Fairchild stood in front of the fireplace talking with Jackson.

His house was … interesting.

A massive Renaissance painting hung above the huge brick fireplace. Situated around the hearth were sofas and chairs where my colleagues sat beneath large, circular wrought iron chandeliers that held electric candles.

These would not have looked out of place in a medieval banquet hall.

A tapestry hung on the opposing wall; suits of armor stood at quiet attention in several corners. All of it distracted guests from the massive picture window perpendicular to the fireplace that captured the stunning snow-covered landscape beyond.

Two smaller windows on either side did just as beautiful a job framing the scenery.

Yet, that view, that amazing view, was lost in the over-the-top decoration that said Franklin Fairchild saw himself as some kind of feudal lord.

As soon as Rhys and I crossed the threshold into the room, a server approached us. “Drinks, sir? Madam?” He gestured to a small bar tucked into the far corner.

“Tink?” Rhys said.

“Uh … I’ll have a beer.”

“Make that two.”

“Export or import?”

I pressed my lips together to stop my laughter at Rhys’s expression. He covered the flash of incredulity and replied, “Whatever you recommend.”

“Bottled or draft?”

Rhys looked at me. I shrugged. He turned back to the guy. “Bottled is fine.”

The server nodded, moved to the bar where another server waited, and then returned a few seconds later with two opened, chilled bottles of a German beer I’d never heard of.

“Jesus.” Rhys took a drink and then glanced down at me. “Ready?”

I wasn’t the one Fairchild was intent on annoying the hell out of. “Am I ready? Are you?”

“Morgan, there you are!” Fairchild’s voice rang across the room.

Rhys gave me a tight smile. “Ready as I’ll ever fucking be.”

I squeezed his hand to let him know I had his back, and we both exhaled before turning toward Fairchild.

Smiling hello at my colleagues as we strolled into the center of the room, I wondered why only me, Jackson, Michael, Xander, and Evan and our respective partners had been invited.

Hadn’t Fairchild said that attendance by everyone in the company was mandatory? No wonder Pete was extra rude toward me that week. Anytime we’d crossed paths, he’d pretended I didn’t exist.

Charming, charming man.

As for Fairchild … ugh, what a liar. He couldn’t have made his real agenda any more obvious, and he was completely unconcerned about being obvious. Which was probably why Jackson looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

Poor Jackson. He loved Horus Renewable Energy. It must have caused him no end of frustration to have to rely on financial investment from someone like Franklin Fairchild.