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Now he winced. “That was probably really sexist.”
“In this case, you get a pass. How’d she like her drink?”
“She said it was fine, the way you say ‘fine’ when you’re tolerating something substandard. Before, when Bailey brought the drinks out, she needled her. You know?” With his thumb and forefinger together, he twisted them sharply. “And Bailey just smiled and said, like, it was so interesting to come home for the summer and run into someone from high school who hadn’t changed a bit. All smiles, but it wasn’t a compliment.”
“Good for her. Awkward for you.”
“Kind of fascinating really.”
“I’d say you could chalk this up to a fortunate escape.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
She kept an easy conversation with him, and another with the group mid-bar, filled orders, watched the floor.
“You know,” Liam said to her when she worked her way down to him again, “I did the backbar thing one school break.”
“Did you?”
“Law of the Jameson Land. You put time in, in every capacity, so you know how everything runs. Or should. I’m pretty sure I sucked at it.”
“I doubt that.”
“I couldn’t do what you do. I’m sitting here watching you do it, and can’t figure out how you do it.”
She leaned toward him. “I can’t ski.”
“I could fix that next season.”
“You will never have the chance. Weird boots stuck to a couple of skinny boards, a hill of snow? Hard pass.”
“Now you’ve made it a challenge.” He stood, laid some cash on the bar. “I love a challenge. See you later.”
“Have a good night.”
Right before closing, Opal marched up to the bar. “Tomorrow, half hour before shift.”
“All right. Let’s meet in the wine cellar. It’s private.”
“Fine.”
Really angry, Morgan noted. But at least—hopefully—she’d soon find out why.
She arranged her day to make the morning meeting with enough time to swing into Crafty Arts for an early look at the photos for a show her ladies had booked for the weekend. Before she left, she brought in the mail and sorted it into piles.
Though she assumed she’d find a solicitation from the one addressed to her from a credit card company, she opened it and prepared to toss it into the recycling bin.
Then stood, stared as her skin ran cold, then hot.
Three thousand, two-hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty-eight cents. On a card she didn’t possess for purchases she hadn’t made, in two stores in New Orleans, where she’d never been.
Everything inside her began to shake. Her throat slammed shut; her lungs shut down. For a terrible moment, her vision went gray. She didn’t feel herself sliding, but ended up on the kitchen floor, clutching the bill, while her ears rang.
She clawed her way up, stumbled over to the sink, leaning over it until the nausea passed enough for her to splash cold water on her face.
Still trembling, she managed to get to a counter stool and sit. Then just lowered her head to the counter until she could breathe again, could think again.
Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, called Special Agent Beck.
