Page 39 of Direct Action

What kind of daughter thought like that?

It was official—I’d reached the end of my rope, and I was holding on by my fingertips.

“Where are we going?” Ryan asked, pulling me from my depressing thoughts.

“Carmel Valley,” I gritted out. “Near The Grand.”

The Grand was a golf club. I doubted Ryan played golf, but still, everyone knew where The Grand was. Obviously, Ryan was part of the everyone because he pulled out of his driveway without further questions.

“Phone, baby, and cancel the car.”

I clenched my teeth as I did what I was told and pulled my phone out of my purse. Instead of being grateful I didn’t have to wait the fifteen minutes for the Uber to get to his house, which would delay me getting to my mom, I was annoyed. It was ungracious and slightly bitchy, but, really, I didn’t need Ryan in my personal business. My father’s health wasn’t a secret. Poppy knew, some of the other servers at work knew, but—and this was a huge but—I didn’t want Ryan horning in. I never wanted him to look at me like Poppy sometimes did when she knew I was struggling. It wasn’t pity, per se. It was more concern, but there was definitely sympathy threaded through her worry. My tummy twisted at the thought of being on the receiving end of Ryan’s pity.

I canceled the car. Then, since I already had my phone engaged, I belatedly read Poppy’s texts. Fallon hadn’t exaggerated, or Jack hadn’t when he conveyed Poppy’s panic. The first three messages were telling me about Cynthia being “MIA” (her abbreviation, not mine). She went on to tell me her feelings on this, which were “scared out of my brain” (again, her exact words), then more of being scared and really hoping this was a misunderstanding and Cynthia was just down with the flu, though she knew that was “grasping at straws” (another direct quote). After that the messages shifted to me. In her panic about Cynthia, she hadn’t realized I wasn’t at work, and she knew I was on shift. Something she would know because we were close and always shared our schedules. That devolved from there to demanding I check in. Her final texts changed again, telling me that Catarina had told her I was in an accident and now she was (and I quote) “out of my mind” with worry and I needed to call her immediately. Right after the “immediately” there were five exclamation points.

I should’ve called her, but with Ryan next to me, he’d be able to hear the conversation—not only my side but Poppy’s. She was in a snit, which meant she’d be yelling, and I couldn’t lower the volume of my phone enough so that Ryan wouldn’t be able to hear her too. I loved and adored Poppy, but she had no filter. Once she found out I was with Ryan, she’d without a doubt bring up my crush, which she not only had known about from the start but had actively participated in. Not the sexy-fun-time fantasies—we were besties, but, still, that’d be kind of ick. Her participation was in the sense she thought I was crazy for not going for it. There was a time, right before my dad’s diagnosis, when I’d almost done just that. But then life took a turn, and responsibility took precedence over my sex drive. Bottom line was, Ryan was my boss, and I needed my job, so if shit went south, I couldn’t afford—literally could not afford—to lose it.

Yet, you still screwed him, a chastising voice echoed in my mind.

No. He screwed me, I silently responded.

And you want him to screw you again, the voice came back.

I mentally shook away my internal musings and refocused on my phone.

So a call was out, but I texted her to assure her I was fine.

Sorry! I didn’t have my phone on me. I’m fine. My baby’s busted up but I’m good.

Three dots immediately started bouncing. A second later her response came through.

Jack told me Ryan picked you up. How’d that go?

Of course she’d zero in on that factoid and include three hot-face emojis with their tongues stuck out like they were panting, with beads of sweat.

It was fine. I’m sorry to hear about your friend.

I included sad-face and hug emojis.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” Ryan asked.

Nope.

Telling him he was taking me to my father’s nursing home would lead to questions I didn’t want to answer. I’d give him directions, and by the time he saw where we were, I’d thank him for the ride, jump out of his truck, and hightail my ass inside before he could question why we were there.

That was my plan, and I was sticking to it.

So instead of answering him, I told him, “Fallon wasn’t wrong. Poppy was freaking out.”

“We’re going to Poppy’s?” he gritted out.

I looked up from my phone. I had Ryan in profile. Still I could see the angry set of his jaw and the lines etched at the corner of his eye. Damn, he was gorgeous, even with a scowl. There was something inherently sexy about a man with a strong jaw, big hands, and well-defined forearms. Ryan had all three, making him a triple threat to my lady bits. A hazard I’d been able to stave off for a long time. But now, since I’d given into that hazard, I was thinking he wasn’t a triple threat. He was a quintuple threat when you added in his mouth and his very large penis. Maybe even a sextuple if I included what he could do with those big hands of his.

“Chloe.” Ryan snapping out my name yanked me back to the present.

“Yeah?” I croaked.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a noisy thinker?” he asked.