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“Again, it’d be helpful if you tried to use your words,” she quips. “I’m not fluent in half-drunk man speak.” I snort. She glares at me “Andgruntingis not English, either.”
Fair enough.
I wave a hand Trent’s way.
“Hey, look on your phone. You showed me the link she sent you, so it’s probably still in your texts.”
“You kidding me? I’ve had about a hundred thousand texts from Maggie since then, I can’t scroll back through.”
Olivia’s expression remains stern. That’s not normal. Most of the time, she’s chipper and cheery, always getting people to laugh. She’s as worked up about this as her brother is, apparently. I get that, too. She and Maggie are really good friends.
She swipes Trent’s phone off the bar. “Yeah, and you might never get another text from her again if we don't figure this out. I don’t care how big of a pile of texts we have to dig through, we are going to find that link. Let me do it.”
He grabs it out of her hands.
“You kidding me? Those are private messages. There’s stuff in there I don’t want you to see.”
She rolls her eyes “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”
She snatches for the phone again, but Trent angles away from her and keeps it out of reach.
I lean in to nudge Olivia’s upper arm. “Probably naked pictures.”
She stops fighting for the device and scrunches her nose at me.
“Ew! Really?”
She has a cute nose. Cute, bow-shaped lips, too, done up in a bright shade of red as always. The woman’s just coming home from halfway across the globe and somehow she manages to look like she’s stepping off a fashion runway.
I shrug. “Dunno. Just sayin’, if he says it’s private…”
Then it hits me—the name of the yoga retreat.
I hunch forward to get a glimpse of Trent, who’s swiping his phone screen busily, brow furrowed. “Hey, I think it was called Couples in Crisis. Wasn’t that it?”
Trent stops scrolling.
“Yeah, that.”
Olivia’s sculpted brows arch and her hazel eyes widen. “Wait… wait. Let me get this straight. Maggie wanted to register for a Couples in Crisis retreat, and you thought everything between you two wasgood?”
“We were fine.”
“No, you weren’t. When your girlfriend—sorry, fiancee—says she wants to register for a retreat with that title, you should sit up and take notice. And I shouldn’t have to tell you that!”
“It sounded like torture,” Trent grumbles. “In the desert, like two thousand bucks for five days, and the lady running it sounded like one of those annoying, holier-than-thou guru types.”
“Oh my gosh, Trent!” She burrows her face in her hands like she’s hiding.
When she pulls up, it’s to pin a look of exasperation on Trent. “If your fiancee suggests a retreat like that mere months before your wedding date, you go. Even if it’s in the arctic. Even if it costs half a million dollars. Even if the thing’s run by Oompa Loompas, straight out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate factory.”
I bite back another snort.
Ha. Oompa Loompas. I haven’t thought about those guys since I was a kid.
Trent shrugs. “Yeah, maybe in hindsight I can see that. But at the time I thought it sounded annoying. Yoga’s her thing, not mine. I don’t do all the hippy-dippy stuff.”
“So, she asked you to register for this five-day retreat with her and you said no?”
