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Chapter8
Eden
As I finish up on the phone, the idea of actually going downstairs and having dinner with Monty makes bile rise into my throat. I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion, and my limbs almost straight up refuse to cooperate. I’m freshly showered and dressed though, and I’m not as shaky as before.
Speaking to Sage also calmed me down, and now I have the update on Flor, who has two fractures in her arm and will probably need surgery to set the bone.
She was hopped up on drugs, so we’d spent half an hour listening to her ramble on about Skittles—coming up with some idea about a Skittles cereal.
“There’s a massive storm rolling in, and I called my dad’s driver to get us home when they discharge her,” Sage had told me, sounding full of regret. “I totally forgot to leave my keys, otherwise I’d tell you to drive my car back.”
I’d waved him off even though he couldn’t see me. “It’s fine. Monty said he’d give me a ride.”
Sage was too quiet for a second, but before I could pull the phone away to check and see if he’d hung up, he’d sighed. “I’m sorry about him. He wasn’t like that at work, but I should have known better.”
“Flor has the worst taste,” I’d told him, grinning.
He’d laughed. “Yeah, she does. She hates him now though, so you don’t need to worry about her setting you up with him again.”
No, I’ll just have to worry about her next harebrained idea, but I didn’t bring that up while she was high on morphine and injured. My near miss was bad enough, and now all I’m thinking about is how I should have seen that as a damn omen.
“Maybe I should send the driver for you after we get home,” Sage had said after a beat.
I’d laughed and pressed my hand to my face. “Sage, no. Just take care of Flor, and I’ll see you both tomorrow when I get into town, okay? Monty’s a douche, but he’ll drive me back. I can handle him.”
Sage had hemmed and hawed for a few more minutes, and then Flor started talking again—that time about marshmallows growing on trees—so I’d let him go to go handle it. I’m sure I was right though—Monty may be a lot of things, but I can’t see him reneging on his offer to drive me.
I glance at the clock and realize it’s a couple of minutes past seven, which makes me officially late.
Contrary to my norm, it feels damn good not to be on time. I’m usually the sort of person who shows up early to avoid offending people, but I don’t want Monty to think I have any real interest in him. I agreed to the dinner because he’s giving me a ride back into town and a good distraction, but I’m not ready to forget that his shitty treatment of a horse almost got me maimed.
And the fact that he wasn’t sorry about it. At all. In fact, I have my suspicions that he’s the reason why Flor’s horse threw her. I just don’t have any proof.
Shaking myself out of it, I’m reaching for the door when the room shakes with a sudden crack of thunder. I’m not scared of storms, but we’re out in the middle of nowhere, and that sounded intense. I hurry over to the window and try to peer out over the horizon, but there’s not enough light to make anything out.
It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s just a storm.
Taking a breath, I head down to the lobby. It’s still lit but entirely devoid of people, and when I walk into the lounge, it’s almost exactly the same. There’s a single bartender, and the only occupied table is the one Monty’s at.
He’s leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched to show his bare ankles and loafers. He’s tapping away on his phone, and I know he hears me by the way he stiffens, but he doesn’t look up.
There’s a small, irritated frown playing on his lips, and I know it’s because I’m ten minutes late.
I almost laugh as I grab the back of the chair opposite him and pull it out. “Have you been waiting long?”
He finally looks up. “We said seven, right?”
I meet his gaze as I sit and hope my expression tells him I’ve run out of fucks. “Yeah. I was on the phone with Sage, so I was held up.”
He gives me a look, then reaches for his manhattan and takes a long drink. “At least the booze is decent,” he says, loud enough to make the bartender look up, and I flush, fighting the urge to tell the guy that I’m not actually with this ass.
“So… Flor’s fine,” I tell him when it’s obvious he’s not going to ask.
“Hmm?” He blinks, then laughs like I’m telling a joke. “Oh, right. Her twisted ankle.”
“She fell off a horse,” I snap at him. “Her arm’s so broken she needs surgery.”
“It’s not like she almost died,” he says, waving a hand at me.
