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Of fucking course.

I turn it facedown.

"Nobody important."

Which might be the biggest lie I've told all night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

BISHOP

“Tell me something, Bish.”

I adjust the cuff of my shirt, wedging my phone between my shoulder and ear.

“Depends. You calling to congratulate me on that spectacular loss in Toronto?”

“Not unless you want me to remind you about that turnover in the second.”

“Fuck off.”

“Happy to. As soon as you answer my question.”

I straighten my collar in the foyer mirror and check the time. Three thirty-five.

I glance toward the staircase—no sign of Laney. We're supposed to leave in ten minutes if we have any hope of beating traffic. Not that I'm complaining. Whatever she's been doing upstairs for the last two hours has me damn curious.

“What question?”

“Mom mentioned Laney's going to the Gala with you tonight.”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Since when?”

“Since I asked her.”

“Smartass.”

“Runs in the family.”

Declan makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Just tell me you're not trying to Pretty Woman my sister.”

I stop adjusting my collar. “Did you just compare your sister to a prostitute?”

“Shit, Bishop.”

“No, seriously. Because that's a pretty fucked-up comparison, even for you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think I do, but I really want to hear you explain it.”

“I'm talking about buying her some expensive dress, dragging her to a fancy event, and making her feel like she's supposed to be something she's not.”

The humor slips out of my voice.