I went from exhilaration to worry to irritation to fuck me.
All over a short redheaded bombshell whose presence I felt the minute she pulled into the parking lot this morning, and whose ass I can’t tear my eyes away from when she beats a retreat to take her massive dog to doggie daycare.
Worse, though, is recognizing that part of me is sagging in relief at putting eyeballs on her myself to verify she’s still in one piece, that she didn’t drown in the ocean or fall down an elevator shaft or get in a fight with the wrong mongoose after she left my hotel.
I’ve spent more hours having emotional whiplash over this woman than I spent in her presence in Hawaii. And I sincerely dislike that I still care when her connection to Chandler Sullivan puts her in spot number one on my sus list.
Did she know who I was when she picked me up in the bar?
I don’t know, but I know I’m the lucky bastard who now gets to live with constant reminders of her unless I can find a legit reason to get rid of her that won’t make me look like the asshole who fucked her and then fired her.
Zen sets a plate of eggs on the low table next to my chair, then drops into the seat Sabrina vacated with an uttered excuse of I’ll get Jitter to doggy daycare and be back for my shift.
They prop their feet up on the small hearth around the central stone fireplace in the dining room and give me a look that means I have some explaining to do. “I expected Sabrina Sullivan to be fabulous after her emails and what I found out about her from the town’s socials, plus there was how much your good friend Charlie—”
“Chandler.”
“—Your good friend Douche Canoe clearly didn’t like her based on how he treated her in that video, but I had no idea she’d be that fabulous. How awesome is that dog? Oh, and by the way, the next time you sleep with an employee, maybe a heads-up beyond we made passing acquaintance in Hawaii would be appropriate? This changes everything.”
“I highly suggest you don’t repeat a word of that out loud ever again.”
“Uncle Grey. You haven’t dated anyone since Felicia-who-makes-me-wish-I-could-have-amnesia. A one-night stand is something to celebrate, even if it’s with Chazarella’s cousin. And you didn’t even tell me.”
I lift the tea and hold the warm mug in my hands, grateful for the heat. It’s chilly here. Zen insists it’s almost seventy degrees in the building, but I’m still cold. Fingers. Toes. My nose too, so I take an extra moment to sniff the fragrant Earl Grey scent in all of its steaming glory before taking another sip. “I was a target.”
Was I?
Did she know who I was?
I don’t know. I have no idea what Chandler told her or what she found out on her own by listening in to everything around her.
But I know I’ve been stabbed in the back enough times in my life that it’s safer to assume she targeted me.
Even if logic tells me that if I’d been a target, she wouldn’t have ghosted me the way she did. Unless she was counting on me to be so thrilled to see her again that I’d forget how much I worried over how she left.
But that seemed like genuine shock to find me here this morning. Was it genuine, or did she have a lot of time to practice?
Trying to think like a vengeance mastermind makes my head hurt. And considering how much I love a good puzzle, that’s saying something.
Zen makes a low, displeased noise. “Word of advice from someone who’s been misjudged because of assumptions their whole life—don’t treat her like Charisma two-point-oh.”
“Chandler,” I correct instead of letting myself feel the guilt that comes with Zen’s reminder. If Sabrina had been anyone other than Chandler Sullivan’s cousin and my new employee, I would’ve been thrilled to see her this morning.
“Do we like him enough to call him by his real name? You squeezed a china tea cup so hard you crushed it with your bare hand when you got his first email asking for money.”
“Would you prefer I call you Zsa Zsa?” I toss back.
“Uncle Grey. I would be honored that you’d think I was that fabulous.”
I blow a slow breath out my nose, sending steam flowing around my nostrils since my tea mug is still so close. “Sabrina Sullivan told me herself that she’s a gossip, and she’s also a liar. Don’t tell her anything you don’t want repeated.”
“She’s a liar?”
“She told me she worked in a beauty salon in Jawbone, Virginia, and that she was a horrible person for screwing up her best friend’s tropical vacation by not telling her she was sleeping with a kitten murderer.”