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12
The smell of bacon wakes up my senses, making me stir in the warmth of my sea of pillows. It takes my brain a moment to comprehend that I am at home and not at IHOP. The unfamiliar scent of fattening meat throws me off as to my location. How much did I drink last night?
I grab my phone from the nightstand and remember the video I took from dinner. I set up my laptop with the audio translation tool and play the video at full volume.
Only Mark’s voice gets picked up on the software since we were sitting beside each other. “Trials…must check placebo…sleeping pills…”
Hearing the interchange the second time makes me realize that the conversation is of a mixed language. Some words are definitely Spanish. Other words are of another language that I do not recognize. But why? Why the extreme attempt to keep the messages secret? And isn’t it rare to have four multilingual men meeting for a business discussion?
Nothing from the staccato translation gives away anything of importance, other than the mere fact that they were trying hard to keep me and the wait staff from understanding what they were talking about. Maybe this is how business is usually discussed? It is not like I have that much experience in this type of world.
Also, Mark made it seem like he was meeting the men for the first time. None of the men shook hands at the table; they appeared to know each other.
Something is not right.
I send the video to my email and archive it under “research.”
I pull up Google on my laptop. I type in “Samson” and follow it with “laboratory” to see if anything comes up. Having no luck, I try “pharmaceutical.” I follow that with Benjamin, Edward, and Mark Tanner’s names. Nothing. It would help if I knew some more last names.
I try just searching Mark Tanner’s name but cannot find much information longer than six months ago. It is as if someone came and vacuumed out all the dust from the Internet. All of the current information is news reports of Mark at fundraisers and charity events.
Giving up, I open my private email for theBad Adviceblog and weed through some of the questions. I need a distraction. Time to clear my head.
Dear Bad Advice,
I think I might be attracted to my best friend’s girlfriend. What should I do?
-Pretty Shy for a White Guy
I type out a quick response, taking little thought.
Dear Pretty Shy for a White Guy,
Kiss the girl and see if you like it. But take a selfie doing it and post it on social media.
-Bad Advice
After responding to a few more questions with my snarkiness, I crawl out of bed and go into the bathroom to assess my bedhead situation and wash my face. I fix my curly hair into a messy bun on top of my head, not even trying to undo some of the tangled chaos. I brush my teeth, choosing the cinnamon paste out of my stash of travel sizes. I think back to Graham’s cinnamon kiss. Yum. Pretty sure my lips have not had better ones pressed up against them—ever.
I grab the fuzzy robe from the hook on the back of the door and throw it on over my pink sleep pants and white fitted tank top. Matching fuzzy pink slippers complete my look. I head downstairs.
At the sight of the half-naked man on my living room couch, I nearly stumble into the coffee table. I squeak out a “hi” and a cheesy grin.
He is the reason for the bacon. And for that, I fall a little in love with him.
“You must be Angie.” The tall, brown-haired man places his coffee mug on a coaster and reaches his hand out to me for a shake. I accept it, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on his ripped, tanned torso.
“Nice to meet you…” I let the “you” trail off, not ready to throw Claire under the bus by guessing a wrong name.
He chuckles to himself. “Ethan,” he finally answers. He releases my hand and then relaxes back into the couch.
I smile and nod. “Of course.”
Claire peeks in from the kitchen, dressed in a white collared men’s shirt and a pair of indecently short booty shorts. So that explains why I am greeted with abs and pecs before noon.
“Hi,” she mutters, almost shyly. She has a whisk in her hand and a frying pan in the other. So this is what domestication on Claire looks like. Her megawatt grin fills in every between-the-line assumption.
“Boy, oh boy,” I say cheerfully, clapping my hands once and then rubbing them together. “Isn’t today full of fun surprises.”
