Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(19)

Shame. It’d make this month lonely.

The desk set aside for her use had been opened when she entered the quiet library. To her surprise, there was a beautiful pale blue rose, freshly cut, laying on a silver tray. A small folded note lay under it.

She picked up the note and opened it, scanning the contents.

I was rude. I apologize. Eldon cooks dinner at seven every night. Tonight, I will be eating in the red dining room if you wish to attend. Pajamas optional.

It was signed with a scribbly HB.

And she smiled.

Chapter 5

Gretchen showed up to dinner five minutes early, a bit on edge. It was silly to be nervous, of course. It was just dinner with a man who, for all intents and purposes, didn’t seem to like her very much. She supposed that she still felt a bit of guilt about their rather nude-ish meeting. It was her fault she’d embarrassed him, after all. And since he was the only shot she had of any company while she was staying here, she very much wanted things to be calm and easy between them.

She’d brushed her hair back into a clean ponytail instead of her regular messy bun, but she wore no makeup and dressed in her track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was just dinner with someone that she wanted to be a friend. Dressing up would make it weird.

Still, when she knocked on the door (after getting directions from Eldon earlier that day) and entered the red dining room, she was surprised to see Mr. Buchanan open the door for her. He was dressed in a crisp suit jacket, and his hair was smoothed against his scalp.

“Were we supposed to dress up?” Gretchen offered him a smile as she stepped into the room. “I admit that I thought of this as a work trip so I wore my usual writing clothes. Sorry if I’m a bit underdressed.”

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly. “You are sufficient.”

She laughed, trying to ease the mood. “Sufficient? I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He looked flustered, and he turned away, shutting the door behind her with a bit more force than it needed. Good Lord. Here she was just trying to be funny and he acted as if he had ants in his pants. He’d been the one to invite her to dinner. “Thank you for the rose,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest and moving around the room to get a look at the furnishings. That seemed safer than looking at her dinner companion, who looked as if he might fall to pieces if he caught her staring at him.

And to be honest, she was practically twitching with the need to watch him. She’d been distracted in the gardens since it had been so cold and their conversation had gone badly. She wanted to stare at his fascinating face and figure out how it had ended up the way it had. He was covered in scars on one side of his face—deep, almost pitted scars that held a story in them. She was very curious about that story.

But since he seemed to be skittish, she pretended to look at the art on the walls of the red dining room. She could see why the room was called that, for rather obvious reasons. The walls were a flat, dark red, and the paintings on the walls were of still life scenes that contained quite a bit of red. This one was of a bouquet of roses, that one of apples. It was all very . . . red. She imagined it would be rather blinding if the lights were up fully, but fortunately—or not—the room was lit only by two candelabras in the center of the long wood table.

If Mr. Buchanan weren’t acting so very weird, she’d think that between the rose and the candlelight that this was a date of some kind, except his manner seemed to say the exact opposite.

“Blue Girl,” he said abruptly, moving to the far end of the table and pulling out a chair.

“What?” She turned to look at him.

He averted his gaze, as if not wanting to meet her eyes, and gestured at the chair that he’d held out for her. “The rose I sent you. It’s called Blue Girl.”

Gretchen took a step forward, noticing that when she did, he subtly shifted to one side, unconsciously moving to ensure that the good side of his face remained in her sights. Interesting. “I see. It’s a lovely rose. I thought it was more purple than blue, though.”

“It is. Very hard to get a true blue color from roses. Most soil is not acidic enough.” His tone was brusque, as if explaining things to a fool.

“Ah.” She sat down at the table and he pushed in her chair for her, then moved to her right. She noticed he didn’t sit at the far end of the table but moved to the center of the right side, sitting at a ninety-degree angle from her. To hide his face again? She couldn’t see the scars on the right side when he sat there. The only thing she could see was a clean, crisp profile.

He was handsome enough, she supposed. His jaw was square and strong, his features regular. His nose was slightly larger than beautiful and, on most men it would have overwhelmed his features. On him, it just looked . . . commanding. His eyes were narrow and dark, and his mouth was thin, as if he never smiled.

Of course, then when he turned slightly to the side, she saw the reason for his serious mien. The scars that covered the right side of his face were hideous. They marked the smooth rise of cheekbone and marred the strong lines of his chin. He was careful to keep his face angled away from her, but she recalled long gouges of scarring that crisscrossed his entire face. His brow was striated with white scars, and the scarring even went into his hairline.

She wondered what had happened that would have caused such scarring.

He glanced up and noticed her watching him. He dropped the silverware he was holding, and it clanged to the tabletop with a bang.