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Once Marco and I parted ways downstairs, I locked all the doors. I showered, although I already had late this morning.
I slip between my favorite sheets in my own bed and switch off the lamp.
And stare at the ceiling.
I can already tell this isn’t going to work.
My friend Claire, bride number four, claims a glass of wine every night before bed calms her racing mind. Katelyn, bride number three gave all of her bridesmaids a bottle as a gift. Currently, it’s rolling around in the back of my car. I throw off my covers and am halfway to the door when I remember my car is not here. Embarrassingly, it is front and center in the parking lot of Jake’s.
Truthfully, I’m glad. I hate the idea of using alcohol as some sort of crutch. With the way my life is unraveling, I could probably end up a raging alcoholic by Thanksgiving.
Again, I settle into my bed and fire hope-filled prayers for sleep toward the ceiling. That’s about as far as my pleas make it these days.
I’m just starting to unwind to a point I think sleep might find me when my eyes fly open. Marco must still have a housekey. Meaning, the room next door or the cabana makes no practical difference as far as my safety is concerned.
I get up one last time—I hope—and lock my bedroom door. I doubt it’s much of a barrier for someone who is skilled, like, say, a trained government agent, but the flimsy lock makes me feel a little better. My gun is in my purse right by the bed.
I think I may be going insane. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that Marco is not a threat. I know guys can get angry when they feel cheated out of certain things, but other than fearing for his life when the truth came out, Marco took the sudden change of plans all very much in stride, and aside from the genesis of our meeting, he’s seemed very much the gentleman.
I, on the other hand, must seem every bit the tramp.
CHAPTER 6
Marco
I’m halfway through my first cup of coffee when I hear footsteps. Seconds later, yawning, Annalise enters the kitchen dressed in a faded t-shirt and fleecy sweatpants, ratty gray ones I might have worn in my middle school athletics days.
And she’sstillhotter than blazes.
Strategy or a girl in her natural habitat?
Dang it. There I go with the wholegirlthing again. But doggone if she doesn’t look young standing there with sleepy eyes and messy hair, in that ridiculous outfit. Innocent, too.
I know that’s deceptive.
She freezes at the end of the bar when she notices me seated at the breakfast table. Her eyes sweep me and I can guess what she’s thinking. I sort of wish all of a sudden that I’d opted against a tank top.
“Sorry if I startled you. I was desperate for coffee, then remembered I still had the key.” I nod to the seashell keyring by the empty fruit bowl. “I’ll leave it here and equip the cabana today so you won’t have to worry about finding me here tomorrow morning.”
Thoughtfully quiet, her eyes track to the housekey, lingering there.
I say nothing more, but I hold my breath, hoping she won’t inform me her hospitality was only for one night, sort of a consolation prize in lieu of thedatethat never did happen.
She comes around the bar and opens the cabinet above the Keurig and pulls out a K-cup, French vanilla. I know because I chose the same flavor. Not the manliest coffee, but no one has to know.
Oops. She extracts my empty from the machine and flicks me a raised eyebrow.
I faux scowl. “Hush!” I hiss.
Her lips curl with a hint of humor as she tosses my empty and replaces it with a new one. Opening the refrigerator, she stares blankly into it. I lift the carton in front of me. “Sorry. Half and half’s over here. I sniffed it. It’s still good.”
Acknowledging me with the barest lift of her chin, she leans a hip and drums the counter with a clackety-clack of fingernails while her cup fills.
As I sip my coffee, I get itchy under her gaze.
“You look just like him.”
Instantly I know to whom and what she refers. I also know her brother and I look nothing alike, except for the covering of thug tattoos so crucial to our jobs. Well, my job. After high drama last spring, Tripp went off and took a desk job. Tapping my cup, I wish I had on a regular shirt. In a place this grand, I feel sorely inferior.
