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Chapter Ten
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I’d be a rich woman if I got a dollar every time someone called me crazy for living in a state known for earthquakes. In the moments after a six-plus shaker on the Richter scale, I had a tendency to believe them.
Not anymore.
That wasn’t crazy.
Thiswas crazy.
Crista’s prediction had come true. Shiraz had barely finished changing into his new jeans when his phone buzzed with text after text. As he’d paused to answer them all, fingers flying over the keys, I’d jammed into a cotton hoodie, a pair of leggings, and my trusty Doc Martens—though the outfit might as well have been a Spicy Cheeto costume, judging by Shiraz’s stunned reaction.
“What are you doing?” he’d barked.
“You think I’m staying up here?” I’d swung a hand at the room—and its sweeping fourth floor view. “With a freaking hurricane on the way?” As if on cue, the wind had whipped the cushions free from the deck chairs and toppled over my remaining nectar. Gah. That had made it personal.
I was willing to release the grudge when Shiraz conceded, “Valid point.” But reclaimed it twice as hard when he continued, “Gather your valuables, then. I shall escort you to the Palais shelter before joining Samsyn and the emergency task force.”
“The hell you will.”
Crista’s bugged eyes alerted me about that faux pas before her boss’s glare had kicked in. Not that I cared. He was no longer a potential client, or even a hot and memorable (really memorable) fling. In short, I was free to faux pas all over his stubborn ass—maybe a good thing when a man needed help with getting shitloads of people to safety in a short amount of time and refused to see the help being freely offered.
“The matter is not up for discussion, Miss Fava.”
“Damn straight it isn’t.” He wanted to play know-it-all dictator? I could match that game. “You need people who know how to move large amounts of other people. Guess what I’ve been damn good at for the last year and a half?”
For a second, he’d looked like I whacked him with a two-by-four. “You…wish to assist with our evacuations?”
His shock had been so genuine, it yanked at a weird place in my chest. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes.” Such tender sincerity. “And I will not allow it.”
Concluded by utter asshole-ness.
Yeah, he had me torqued enough to be inventing new words.
Even now, a handful of hours later, I had yet another fresh one.
Prickitude.
As I sat with Crista somewhere in the Palais’ underground with a hundred court employees and their families, there was plenty of time to compose the whole dictionary listing for it too.
Prickitude
1: Attitude affected by that of being a prick, shown by overbearing disposition, churlish ways, and disregard for logical sources of assistance in dire emergencies.
2: The state of being such a prick, all common sense is ignored.
3: Movement led by Prince Shiraz Cimarron, Kingdom of Arcadia.
I was tempted to add a picture along with the mental heading but wasn’t ready to take the edge off my rage—a given if I envisioned even part of the man’s face. Or hair. Or shoulders. Or chest. Or other body parts I’d only felt through clothing but sure as hell could fill in the blanks on…
“Dammit.” I spat it to no one in particular, keeping my voice low out of respect for the small kids playing nearby. The group was a secret blessing to my nerves with their sense of wide-eyed adventure. To them, the storm surge was an excuse for potential puddle stomping, the wind howling through the Palais tunnels a new beast to befriend. Their delight was oddly calming—to an extent. I was too stressed to relax all the way.
Hanging on to my anger also meant I didn’t have to face my fear.
That a storm raged so hard above us, I could hear its effects through layers of solid stone.
