“Thank fuck,” I said, a rough rasp lingering in the edges of my voice. “I finally found a way to shut you up.”
The vivid blue of her eyes clouded by derision, she jumped to standing. Though they were marred, they were still resoundingly powerful, chaining me to them. Even knowing her chest must have bounced with the movement, my gaze never left the confounded lines of her face. It was so out of character; I didn’t even recognize myself.
“Don’t ever kiss me again without permission,” she whispered shakily. The rough edge of her command cut like a knife. All traces of superficial playfulness had disappeared, and the look in her eyes burned through several layers of flesh until it met my soul.
Some kind of nerve had been frayed, and I wasn’t sure I was a talented enough surgeon to execute the repair. The only option was to move on, and the only tactic I knew how to employ was avoidance.
I climbed to my feet. “Let’s search for Walter one more time. Here, inside the apartment, and around this floor. If we don’t find him in the next thirty minutes or so, I’ll call Kline.”
“That deadbeat isn’t going to care! Georgie cares. Fuck, she’s gonna be mad.”
“Don’t worry,” I comforted her but didn’t move closer. “Kline gives no fucks about Walter, but he gives all kinds of fucks about Georgia. He’ll hire a fucking private detective if he has to.”
“A cat detective?” she asked as she considered my words, tilting her head to the side and grinning just enough to look normal again.
I shrugged and breathed out a sigh of relief. “Yeah. If there are cat burglars, there must be cat detectives, right?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah.” We didn’t agree on much, but on that, we were on the same fucking page.
I was thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking. Things that would probably never happen. Things I wasn’t even sure I wanted to happen.
And that made me the goddamn king of royally fucked.
Bora Bora, Thursday, April 20th, Afternoon
I glanced through the open bathroom door to the steam coming out of the shower and back down to the screen of my phone to confirm the name on the incoming call said what I thought it did.
It fucking did.
With a touch of the green phone icon and a frustrated groan, I answered and didn’t mince words. “You, Cassie, Wes, or Walter better be dead or in the process of getting that way.”
“What if I told you Wes is fine, Cassie’s crazy, I almost died, and the cat is missing?” Thatch said in my ear without pause.
“Shit.” The piercing pain of aggravation made me squeeze the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.
“Yeah,” he confirmed.
I turned to face away from the bathroom and paced the space in front of the bed.
“The first three I understand, but how in the fuck did we arrive at the fourth? Walter is the bane of my existence, but other than being sloppy and surly, he’s surprisingly easy to watch.”
“Well, we thought it happened while I was having a conversation with Cassie’s tits—and seriously, we’ll have to have another talk about that later—but it actually happened while she was threatening to go all Fight Club with your neighbor.”
“It’s actually painful to be friends with you right now.”
Exasperated laughter pulsed in my ear. “I’m picking up on that. You’ve got a seriously heavy aura pouring through the phone lines right now.”
“You know what comes through right after my aura?” I asked.
“Something tells me I don’t wanna know, but at the same time, I have to know.”
“My hand. To fucking strangle you.”
“Kline—”
“I’m on my honeymoon right now,” I pointed out the obvious. “A vacation specifically designed for constant sex with my insanely hot wife. And you and fucking Wes won’t stop interrupting it.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced toward the bathroom again.
“I don’t know about Wes, but this is my first and final time, dude. I just want to know if the cat’s got a tracking chip in it.”
I wrapped a hand around my throat, dropped my head back, and closed my eyes. “I’m not completely sure, but my mom would know. She did all of his vet stuff.”
“Thank fuck,” he muttered. He actually sounded worn-out and weird. But I didn’t care. I planned to save all of my energy for exponentially more pleasurable activities, and I refused to let my tendency to care get in the way of that.
“She’s also likely to make your life a living hell if you speak with her directly about her missing, beloved cat,” I advised. “Your best bet is to talk to Bob.”
Thatch chuckled. “I don’t know why you decided to show leniency toward me by telling me that, but thank you. I can only handle one irrational woman at a time.”