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“I…um… Swain and I haven’t completely strategized our next step.” Because he’s not here. He hasn’t been here all night, and, in fact, I have no idea where he is. That’s the kind of tight working partnership we’ve established. “But we could probably go to Rawley’s again tonight. If Kenny and Dobie stop in, we can continue strengthening that connection. Invite them back to the house after last call and see if they bring their preferred party favor.”
“Sound strategy. Although Kenny and Dobie don’t usually hit Rawley’s on nights Roxy isn’t playing. If they show, it’s because they hope to run into you—which is a good sign. Normally, I think they prefer to use their money for other intoxicants than what’s available at Rawley’s. Speaking of which, let them introduce that topic, so it seems…ha ha…organic.”
“Will do.”
“Great. Let me know if the plan changes. Otherwise, just give me a verbal update tomorrow morning.”
“Will do,” she repeated.
“Anything else we should go over?”
If she planned on sticking with the op, there was one more issue to discuss. “Um. Yes, actually. I appreciate the wardrobe stipend the department provided, and I’m sorry, sir, but now that I’ve been to Rawley’s and gotten a better feel for my cover, I realize I missed the mark on some of my purchases. I’ll return what I can, but basically, most of what I picked out is too…too…” How could she put it? “Too buttoned-up. Not casual enough. It’s not right for the cover.” Frustrated and embarrassed, she apologized again. “Sorry. I know putting together a few outfits isn’t rocket science.”
“It would be to me, Brix. Take my word on that. The department can kick in a couple hundred for the right clothes and whatnot, and whatever you can return of what you won’t be able to use is greatly appreciated, but…”
He trailed off, and she heard him say something to his wife. Whatever it was, she laughed and replied loudly. “Hell, yes! Tell Eden ‘Sexy R Us’ will make a house call.” Buchanan sounded a bit pained as he said, “How ’bout we rely on an expert civilian consultant to handle the details?”
She let out a breath of pure relief. “That would be awesome, sir.”
“Fantastic. I’ll pass the phone over to Ginny and let you two work out the details.”
“Thank you, sir.” She picked up a cold piece of toast and bit off a corner. At least she wouldn’t have to go another round with Swain tonight about her personal presentation. If he didn’t like her outfit, she’d tell him he could take it up with Buchanan’s expert civilian consultant.
Ginny hopped on the line to collect some pertinent details—including a question about body luminizers that told Eden copious amounts of her skin would continue to be on display—and promised to come by the house later in the afternoon with everything they’d need to perfect the future Mrs. Eden Swain’s look.
Feeling steadier, Eden sat back in her chair, munched her toast, and considered texting Swain to find out where the hell he was—probably waking up in a strange bed, next to some deluded woman—and telling him she hadn’t packed her bags. Yet. Though the idea he’d spent the night somewhere else, with someone else, made her want to. How dare that faithless, two-timing bastard of a fake fiancé cheat on her? Yes, last night she’d told him she was bailing, but he hadn’t even waited for official word before falling into bed with someone else. Before she could tap her phone screen, an incoming text pinged.
Where y’at, choux?
What kind of greeting was that? He’d been gone all night, for Christ’s sake. I’m at the house. Where are you, Don fucking Juan? We’re supposed to be engaged.
You dumped me. Remember?
I spoke with B. He wants us to go to Rawley’s tonight. Apparently, I’m taking your cheating ass back. Don’t make me regret it. That summary mischaracterized things slightly, but she preferred to let him think Buchanan had influenced her decision to stay.
No regrets. I promise.
Says the man I can’t trust.
The dot-dot-dot pulsed, pulsed, pulsed…and disappeared. Hmm. Didn’t that just speak louder than words?
She tapped her keys. Where are you?
Work. Rain coming & the owner wants his roof on before it hits. Jr. put out the call. We can use the OT. I’ll be home by 4.
Boo-hoo. It sucked to be him. Whoring all night, working all day.
Fine.
She tossed the phone aside and picked up her toast. Two bites later, a new text dinged. Turning the phone to face her, she read.
BTW, my cheating ass spent the night in the Bronco. Me and Jack Daniels. Alone.
Why that piece of possible fiction put a smile on her lips, she refused to analyze. She also refused to reply.
I’m tired. Hungover. Covered in bug bites.
She texted a violin and a crying emoji.
