Dennis Williams didn’t give the earlier drama a second thought.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone easy. “As long as you walk tall and do what’s right, there’s nothing to fear from a little gossip.”
But Camila Davis still looked troubled.
Sure, Mr. Williams had a reputation in the military—people respected him, maybe even feared him a little—but Jordan Smith was no small fish in Harrisburg, either. The guy basically had the city’s economy wrapped around his finger, and his network of connections wasn’t anything to scoff at.
If Jordan decided to make trouble for Mr. Williams, what then?
Dennis wasn’t in love with her, Camila knew that, but he’d never let anyone trample on his dignity either. This mess probably wouldn’t just blow over.
As if reading her mind, Dennis glanced at her, his steady blue eyes giving nothing away.
The Smith Group was powerful in Harrisburg, sure. But as far as Dennis was concerned, Jordan Smith couldn’t reach him, no matter how long his arms were.
Dennis changed the subject. “Where’s our table?”
Camila blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “Private room, number three,” she answered.
Just then, the elevator doors slid open and a server greeted them, ready to lead the way.
A few minutes later, they settled into the private dining room. Camila, still a little rattled, picked up the menu.
While she was browsing, Dennis casually asked the server, “Do you have an ice pack? Could you bring one, please?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll be right back,” the server replied, polite and efficient.

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