Free Beauty and the Billionaire (BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB NOVEL) by Jessica Clare

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