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She tosses her gum in the trash, tears open her candy bar, and stares at my wound. “What were you doing at the port, anyway? I’m sure I saw you at the wedding last night. Or did I have too many lemonades?”
“No, I was there.” My fingers creep up to my pendant again. “But I went for a walk on my way home.”
“Jeez. That’s unlucky.” You’re telling me. “Well, it could have been much worse. Working at The Rusty Anchor means I know pretty much everyone who was injured.” Her throat bobs. “And those who didn’t make it.”
My own throat dries up faster than the Sahara after a storm. “How many died?”
“Three. So far, anyway.”
Jesus. “What the hell happened, a burst gas pipe or something?”
Biting off a chunk of chocolate, she chews thoughtfully for a moment. “Terrorist attack,” she mumbles, all candy and teeth.
“I—what?”
“No idea who did it, though. Everyone was being pretty hush-hush last night.”
Now, I’m starting to think these pain meds are making me loopy. “Why would somebody want to blow up that tiny port?”
“Because the Viscontis own it.” Visconti. The name shoots from Wren’s chocolate-filled mouth and hits my chest like a bullet. Of course the Viscontis own the fucking port. “It’s too much of a coincidence that Angelo announces he’s moving back to Devil’s Dip, and then the port blows up on his wedding day.”
My eyes slide to hers. “Angelo’s moving back?”
“Of course. Rory won’t leave the Coast.” She sighs through another mouthful of chocolate. “Poor Rory. Doesn’t look like she’ll be going on her honeymoon after all.”
Despite the cocktail of numbing agents taking the edge off my pain, the slow dread filling my stomach feels all too real. If Angelo’s moved back to the Coast, then what does that mean for his brothers?
“On his own?”
“What do you mean?”
We lock eyes for a beat too long, then a knowing smirk stretches her pink lips. “Oh, I see.”
“See what?”
She sinks back in her chair, that smirk widening to a grin. “If you’ve got your eye on Rafe, then you better get in line.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, making my skin prickle. “I’m not interested in Raphael; I was just making polite conver—”
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m not one to judge.” She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “They don’t call him Prince Charming for nothing.”
My laugh is bitter. “I must have grown up watching different Disney films.”
“Aw, come off it. Rafe’s lovely.” Her hand touches her chest and the small smile that graces her lips suggests her mind has gone elsewhere. Somewhere Raphael Visconti isn’t a raging asshole, presumably. “He’s not my type, but I can fully appreciate the appeal. He’s just…such a gentleman. You know, the type of guy in black and white movies that lays his jacket over a puddle of mud so his date doesn’t ruin her shoes? Or, like, the kind of guy to send you a dozen roses, simply because it’s a Wednesday.”
I can’t help it. “You seriously believe that shit?”
Her tinkling laugh floats across the room. “Seems like you’ve had a different experience.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek to stop myself mentioning things like dicks in doors and guns in glasses.
When the silence lingers too long, Wren lets out another chuckle and swipes her boots off my bed. “Yikes. F is for ‘fuck him,’ am I right?”
Despite feeling like all the problems in the world are pinning me to this bed, I can’t help but laugh.
Her gaze comes to mine, all sparkly and innocent. “If you’re hanging around for a while, you should swing by The Rusty Anchor some time. You know, once we’ve cleared up the mess from the explosion, and once you don’t look like Frankenstein.” She prods the IV drip with a pink fingernail. “Rory and Tayce swing by every Tuesday night, and there’s always room for one more at the bar.”
Her offer is probably just in passing, a sweet gesture from a sweet girl. It shouldn’t make the backs of my eyes burn like it does. Maybe it’s because morphine makes me emotional, or maybe it’s because I feel guilty about palming her off as just the weird girl who does good deeds.
