God, he was infuriating. I could feel my blood boil beneath my skin as I scowled at Wes over my glass of wine.
Georgia and Cassie continued a conversation about the sex of the baby, seemingly unaware of the damn near suffocating tension hovering between Wes and me. How they missed it was a miracle. The air had grown so thick I felt the urge to reach up and cut through it with Cassie’s steak knife.
Wes held my irritated stare but seemed more amused by it than anything else. “Do you like the wine, Winnie?” he asked in a tone that would’ve sounded sweet to everyone else’s ears.
But I knew better. He was being a condescending prick.
My inner bitch immediately unsheathed her claws, all too ready to knock his ego down a few pegs.
I shrugged and schooled my facial expression into neutral. “It’s okay, I guess. Not necessarily worth five hundred a bottle, but it’ll do.”
He chuckled. “What is that? Your third glass?”
I rolled my eyes, and Cassie groaned. “I wish I could drink three glasses of wine right now.”
“No wine allowed, Casshead,” Georgia quickly interrupted.
“Shut. Up,” Cass retorted with a glare that would’ve had most people averting eye contact in hopes of self-preservation. Of course, Georgia wasn’t the least bit intimated. She might have been tiny, but that girl possessed one hell of a fight inside of her when it came to something she felt strongly about. And keeping Cassie and the baby healthy had recently become one of her top priorities. To the point of annoyance for everyone around her.
“You know, one glass wouldn’t hurt you or the baby, Cassie,” I offered.
Georgia’s eyes practically shot laser beams in my direction. “Winnie! Do not encourage her to drink alcohol.”
Cassie flipped Georgia off. “Can someone take the pregnancy police home? She’s a total fluffing fun ruiner.”
“Who’s the pregnancy police?”
We all turned in the direction of the deep male voice to find Kline smirking down at our table.
Cassie pointed to Georgia. “Your wife. She’s a buzzkill.”
But Georgia ignored her, hopping up from her chair and wrapping her arms around Kline’s neck. She kissed him firmly on the mouth before asking, “What are you doing here, baby?”
He grinned down at her and slid a piece of her now dark locks behind her ear. “I heard the whole gang was in Phoenix. I didn’t want to miss out.”
“Everyone but Thatcher,” Cassie added, and Kline’s grin grew bigger.
Knock knock.
Ah, fuck.
I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes as I rolled over to look at the clock on the hotel nightstand. 6:37 a.m.
Last night had been a late one. Knowing that Cassie was spending her evening out to dinner with not only Georgia, but also Wes and Winnie, I’d used the time to catch up on all the work I’d been missing while following my pregnant fiancée around in a city that should’ve been known for its sweltering heat instead of its desert landscapes and mostly sunny days. It was safe to say I was ready for this weekend to be over.
Much to Cassie’s dismay, last night I had chosen work over our nightly Skype session. But it wouldn’t do me all that much good, following her around on some misguided journey of paranoia, only to let my company crumble to the ground so she had to take my kid and leave me because I lost all of our money and couldn’t support them.
Just what I needed. Another doomsday scenario.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Fucking hell, I was going to kill someone.
“I’m coming!” I called out blindly to the door as I rolled out of the bed and forced my upper body straight up and my legs to stand.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Face like thunder, I charged for the door and yanked it open to nothing. No person demonizing my sleep, no maid asking to clean my room on Portuguese time, and no circus animals. But as I looked down to my feet to stave off an ounce of my anger so that it wouldn’t boil over, I saw that there was a plain, brown paper package on the floor. Open Me was written in permanent marker on the top.
Resisting the urge to follow my own, very different instructions, of Smash Me into a Million Fucking Pieces, I picked up the package, slammed my door, and dropped it onto the table five steps inside the entryway to my room.
BeepBeep, the package squawked.
I’m not ashamed to admit I jumped back a step.
Okay, maybe I’m a little ashamed, but you would’ve jumped, too.
BeepBeep, it sounded again. “Come in, Thatch. Over.”
What the fucking fuck?
That was Georgia’s voice.
Carefully, like it was a goddamn bomb, I unwrapped the corners one at a time, slid the plain white box out from the paper, and opened it slowly. A lone walkie-talkie sat tauntingly inside.