Page 18 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
The rest of the crew had already got in the van and drove off. I go to my truck and when I open the door I’m surprised by the fragrant smell of orange.
The orange is on the dash where I left it this morning. I climb in. Close the door. Sit with my hands on the steering wheel and look at it.
Then I reach over and pick it up.
The scent comes up thick, sharp-sweet, filling the cab.
My mind goes straight to Carter.
I was not prepared for all his attractive ruggedness.
A muscle low in my stomach pulls tight. I feel it the way I'd feel a hand there. The heat in my forearms runs down into my palms, and my grip on the orange tightens without my permission, nail digging into the rind, another wave of citrus lifting into the cab. My thighs press together once against the seat before I register what I'm doing, and I go still.
This is going to be a problem.
I put the orange back on the dash. It rolls two inches and stops against the windshield.
When I’m about to start the truck, my phone lights up in the cup holder. Looking at the caller ID, I see that it’s Charlie calling. For sure to check in on Emilio.
I pick up on the second ring, half-laughing before I've got the phone to my ear.
"Yes, he showed up. Yes, he worked. Charlie, he's a good kid, you can stop—"
"Ma'am."
The voice is not Charlie.
It's a woman with a calm and detached voice. The kind of calm that's trained. The kind that gets used on people who are about to need it.
"Am I speaking with Sienna Cross, the emergency contact for Charlotte Martin?"
7
WILLIAM
Carter is still talking about her and I have officially lost my appetite.
"She had a real eye for it," Carter says, tearing a piece of bread in half. "Came in, walked the site, and within fifteen minutes she'd identified three things Marcus missed. Not nitpicks. Real things. Drainage on the lower terrace, irrigation spacing, the fact that the boxwood was going to cook in August." He sets the bread down. "She suggested creeping thyme instead. More environmentally friendly and saves us maintenance money too. The guy from Sycamore was not pleased. At all."
Carter doesn't get enthusiastic about people. He evaluates them. What he's doing right now, that mild forward lean, the unhurried detailing of her competencies, is the closest thing to a rave review that he can manage.
Great. Now even my most stoic friend is singing Sienna Cross’s praises.
I pick up my whisky.
Adrian laughs, low in his throat, "She's got aura."
"No." Flat. I want this conversation to end. I’m starting to get a head ache.
"What?" Adrian asks with amusement in his eyes.
"No. You're not allowed to sayaura. You're thirty-six. You should not be repeating what you hear on TikTok."
He grins, wide and easy. completely without shame. Then, completely without shame, he holds eye contact with someone sitting at the bar. I glance over my shoulder to confirm. Dark hair. Good posture. Expensive dress. Glass of red wine held at the right angle. By the way she's already smiling back, they will be sharing a drink later. And for sure, something more.
I turn back.
"You were, just now, in the middle of praising a woman's aura, while eye-fucking a completely different woman across the room."
