Page 44

His eyebrows rise.

“You came all this way for a nightcap and you're ordering water?”

“Sparkling water then.”

He makes a face.

“What? I want a clear head.”

“That’s smart.”

“I usually am.”

“I've noticed.”

There it is again. That tone.

I ignore the stupid little flutter in my stomach. Mitchell pours himself what looks like scotch and hands me a bottle of sparkling water.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“My office.”

My journalist heart nearly explodes.

His office.

Holy shit.

I follow him.

The room is exactly what I'd expect if a technology billionaire and an obsessive rugby fan had a baby.

Screens. Computers. Books. Files. Rugby memorabilia.

A huge digital display showing what appears to be Rovers’ performance data. And photographs.

My gaze catches on one.

Mitchell. Much younger. Standing beside an older man. Both holding a rugby ball.

My breath catches.

Grandfather? Has to be.

I take one step closer. Mitchell moves between me and the photograph. Not aggressively. But deliberately.

Interesting.

“Sit.”

I look at him.

“Do you order everyone around?”

“Yes.”