Page 149 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“You didn’t answer the question, which in itself is intriguing.” Delilah repeated, “Is there a reason for the rush job?”
“They already had the cabinets drilled in, the flooring placed, and the appliances installed.” I tapped my fingers over my keyboard, double-checked that the word bribe had been replaced with a show of gratitude and friendship, and pressed send on a memo to a Singaporean diplomat. “You act as if they’re creating a kitchen from scratch. It’s just the counter and cabinet doors.”
“You still didn’t answer the question.”
“Is this what we’re doing now? Playing Twenty Questions instead of working? If so, I’ll start.” I closed my laptop and blanketed her with my full attention. “What’s that word called when you dismiss an employee from her job for failure to work?”
She hit me with an unimpressed eye roll. “I detect an unusual and entertaining level of defensiveness.”
Of course, I was fucking defensive.
She would be, too, if her first kiss in over fifteen years went to a girl who talked more to the sky than she did with actual goddamn humans, and whispered made-up words to herself, and snuck into other people’s beds and showers as if she owned the world, and possessed a level of stubbornness that would make hostage negotiators quit, and wore the same outfit every day with a different ‘magic’ word on a fucking shirt manufactured by the pathetic bastard responsible for Dad’s death.
And every time Emery mouthed something to the sky, or muttered a word, or showed up somewhere uninvited, or declined food she clearly needed, or wore one of those stupid fucking shirts, my lips wanted to devour her, followed by her body, and finally her mind.
It drove me goddamned nuts.
Clearly, I didn’t disclose any of this. For a lawyer, Delilah had the tact of a socially unaware toddler when it came to me.
I exited my browser and focused on her. “What happened during your trip to Cordovia that makes you flush bright pink every time I mention the country?”
Her cheeks flamed.
Called it.
All I knew about her trip to the tiny European island was, she left single and ended up with Kingston Reinhardt VII, second in line to the throne, as her husband.
Delilah greeted the cleaning crew to save face, giving me her back.
“Thought so,” I muttered.
I moved closets last night.
It shouldn’t have made me sad, but it did.
Like leaving a relative you saw once a decade. In theory, you weren't supposed to get attached in so little time, but it happened. Next thing you know, you’re crying into a bottle of pinot, promising to see each other soon.
Or, in my case, running around the hotel, putting out fires. Bags lined my eyes. I wore my t-shirt backward, but the energy required to run to the restroom and flip it convinced me backward tees could be the new trend.
I zipped up the hoodie I wore to cover my shirt and set out to find Cayden. Two floors later, I spotted him arguing with the foreman.
“You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit.” I unsaddled bags of dresser knobs from my arms and shoved them into Cayden’s. “You were supposed to help me arrange carpets on the fifth floor.”
The foreman yawned before sacrificing Cayden to deal with my wrath. I’d spent last night sneaking my things three floors up to a closet on the 19th floor, because the 16th floor would get its finishing touches in a few days.
With the project further along and expensive furnishings involved, hotel securi
ty had beefed up. It made me paranoid. I lunged from door to door, dodging shadows in the hall. No one caught me, but I panted by the time I lugged my t-shirt printer to the corner of the new space and passed out.
“Sorry. I forgot.” He scrubbed at his face, blinked away the lethargy, and sifted through the knobs. “Mr. Prescott requested a rush on his room, so I had to reassign the construction crews and find replacements.”
Cayden handed the bag to someone.
I trailed him to the elevators. For a fleeting second, excitement energized me. “We’re getting a centerpiece.”
“I know.” He pressed the button for the lobby.
