“Why, what did you hear?”
“What would I have heard?” I make a face even though she’s not there to see it. “Was Mom supposed to update me on your sex life?”
“Haha. No, I guess not. What about your British lover? Did you elope? I won’t be mad if you did. Just throwing that out there. Random FYI.”
“Err, no. We definitely did not elope.” I try to sound breezy when I say it, but I fail. Miserably.
“That sounds foreboding. What happened?”
I take a deep breath and bring her up to speed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jennings
“Is your asshole cousin still here?”
I look up from the laptop before me at the sound of Canon’s voice. “Still here,” I call out, though he’s speaking to Rhys. “Still your boss as well,” I add.
“Is he done sulking?” Canon asks Rhys, ignoring me, though I know damn well he heard me. “I can’t watch the game with that kind of energy.” He’s so full of shit. He rounds the corner of Rhys’ hall carrying a couple of pizza boxes and grins, pretending surprise at seeing me. “Oh, my bad. You are here.”
“Fuck off.”
“You look well.” The pizza boxes hit the coffee table with a thud before he grabs himself a beer from the fridge. I can’t possibly look well, so I’m certain that comment is an attempt at being clever. “Did I miss kickoff?” he asks as he tosses the beer cap in the direction of Rhys’s kitchen counter, where it bounces until it hits the tiled backsplash and comes to a stop.
This setup they’ve got is like some goddamned American-style frat house. But with room service, valet parking, and a five-minute commute to work. I’d seriously doubt their ability to run this hotel if I didn’t know better. If I hadn’t seen them at work with my own eyes.
Still.
My eyes narrow as Canon drops onto the sofa and flips the lid on one of the boxes. It’s hard to believe these idiots are capable of anything when I see them like this, much less that they’re integral executive staff. Hence the onsite living accommodations-turned-frat party.
“Did you ask the bar to send up another bottle of bourbon?” Rhys says. See what I mean? They’ve got access to a bar with delivery. A bar with an unlimited tab, the fact that the bourbon is for me notwithstanding.
I should break it to Aunt Poppy that Rhys is never moving back to Connecticut, because as far as I can tell these assholes are going to live in this hotel until their dicks fall off. I’m positive I passed a stripper in the hallway yesterday entering someone’s suite. Or possibly a hooker, but I’m choosing to believe she was the former.
I asked Rhys and Canon if I should be worried about the going-ons here, which they assured me was unnecessary. And now I’m the arsehole.
Fucking Americans.
I pour myself a drink as the two of them sprawl on the sofa and turn the volume up on the game.
I tune them out and go back to reading Daisy’s employment file on my laptop. Again. It just doesn’t add up. I’ve already read her performance reviews. I can’t find any obvious inconsistencies. Her degree from Arizona State is legitimate. So she lied about going to Penn. The guide positions are contract, but she’s consistently worked for the last four years. So she lied about working in design. I can’t see how it’s possible she’d have had the time to do both.
But why?
Why tell me she was recently hired as a guide? That lie doesn’t make any sense. None of them do, but this one sticks out as especially unnecessary. Unless it was to set up the lie about losing the job. About dating her boss and getting let go. A person would have to be borderline psychotic to lie that deeply.
There’s something here I’m not seeing.
The note she left me said I was an arsehole. “You’re a special kind of arsehole,” she’d written. I’m not sure if she thought I wouldn’t get it if she’d written ‘asshole’ or if it got her off to use the British spelling, but either way I’m unsure how I’m the one at fault.
She’s certifiably crazy.
I groan and toss my laptop aside.
“You’re bringing down my chi, bro.” This from Canon. He holds the pizza box open in front of me and I take a slice because combining top-shelf bourbon and shitty pizza is the least of my issues at present.
“You wouldn’t know chi if it was sucking your dick,” I tell him. He really wouldn’t. Canon is not a zen motherfucker.
“Finally!” He tosses the box back onto the table and raises his hands in victory. He’s still holding a beer in one of them and I expect a mess, but he’s apparently well-trained in gesturing with drink, as he doesn’t lose a drop. “I knew you had a sense of humor in there somewhere. No.” He shakes his head. “No, that’s a lie. I didn’t believe it. But Rhys said you did and I believed him.”