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“Almost definitely.”
We hugged, and I hurried across the lawn toward the line of double-parked vehicles full of college students bumming rides from one another, scanning the landscape for Smithy’s shielded, brand-new Cadillac.
This time, Wolfe went above and beyond with all the accessories to make sure it was bulletproof.
I spotted Smithy in the car, messing with his phone, and smiled to myself. Everything was going to be okay. Wolfe might not respond to the news with enthusiasm, but I hoped he wouldn’t be crushed, either.
I was almost at the car when Kristen, the journalist, appeared out of thin air, jumping in front of me, looking haggard. Her hair was frizzy and the bags under her eyes purplish from what I assumed was lack of sleep.
My two executive protection agents got out of the car simultaneously, hurrying toward us.
I raised my arm and waved them away.
“It’s okay.”
“Mrs. Keaton.”
“It’s fine,” I insisted. “Take a step back, please.”
Kristen didn’t even notice them. She zigzagged in place.
“Francescaaaa,” she slurred, pointing her finger in my general direction.
She was too drunk to point it at me. I tried to remember where we left things off with her. Last I heard, Wolfe said he got her fired.
She was obviously feeling vindictive. But it’d been weeks.
“Where have you been?” I asked, trying not to scan her tattered shirt and dirty jeans.
She waved a hand around, hiccupping.
“Oh, here and there. Everywhere, really. Crashed at my parents’ in Ohio. Came back here to try and look for a job. Called your husband hundreds of time to try and get me un-blacklisted. And then…crap, why am I telling you this anyway?”
She laughed, flipping her greasy hair aside. I looked behind me to see if Angelo was around. She read my mind.
“Relax. I just fucked your friend so Wolfe would get mad at you. He’s too young for me anyway.”
And too good for you, I thought to myself.
Pregnancy obviously messed with my logic because I felt the urge to rub her arm or buy her a cup of coffee.
I knew damn well that she tried to ruin my life to save hers, and that she wanted my husband for herself (at least before he got her fired).
But the thing about compassion was that it wasn’t given to people who necessarily deserved it, but needed it nonetheless.
“Obviously, my plan failed miserably.” She dragged her chipped fingernails over her cheeks, scanning my pristine white cardigan over my knee-length black dress. “You look like a fucking church girl.”
“I am a church girl.”
She snorted out a laugh.
“He’s a kinky bastard.”
“Or maybe he just likes me.”
I dug in an imaginary knife into her chest. She did, after all, try to make my husband believe that I cheated on him.
No matter how dire her situation was, there was no need to be mean to me. I hadn’t done anything to her.
