“Is it my birthday?” he whispers. Then he looks around the room. “Holy moly. Okay. Tank, Spike, Max, Foster, Crusher. Your turn.”
“Oh, I think not,” Skip says, finally unfreezing.
He storms over, slaps both hands over Eli’s eyes, and starts dragging him toward the door.
Eli laughs. “I can’t see.”
“Deal with it,” Skip says. “We’re going home, and I’m going to show you why my body is the only one you’ll ever need.”
Sunny is wheezing now.
Eli blindly pats at Skip’s arm. “Can I say goodbye first?”
“No.”
“But there are shirtless men.”
“Exactly.”
Laughing under my breath, I put my shirt back on and head for the door.
“Keep me updated, Spike,” I say over my shoulder.
“Will do, brother,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
Mia
This is insane.
What am I doing?
The thought runs through my mind for the seventh time since we turned through the massive iron gates at the end of Maverick Moretti’s drive.
Actually, no. Drive is too small a word.
This isn’t a driveway. This is a private road pretending to be humble.
Tall palms line both sides, lit from below with soft golden lights even though the sun has barely started to dip behind the mountains. The landscaping is perfect. Not pretty. Perfect. Like every flower was interviewed before being allowed to live here.
Beside me, Livy presses both hands to the window.
“Wow, Mama,” she breathes. “Look how big his house is.”
The estate rises ahead of us in pale stone and dark wood, all graceful arches, wide balconies, and warm light spilling from tall windows. It looks Italian. Not in the theme-restaurant way. In the way that makes me feel like someone imported a villa brick by brick and told Palm Springs to behave itself around it.
“It’s beautiful,” I manage.
Livy turns to me, eyes wide. “Do you think he has a dungeon?”
“Olivia.”
“What? Rich people's houses always have weird rooms.”
“That’s not true, honey.”
“How do you know for sure? We’re not rich.”
