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Chapter Six
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“So the Prince of Earthly Perfection didn’t let you feel up his codpiece before you left?”
Dammit, Ezra.
I glared at my laptop camera while swallowing a mouthful of rich Arcadian nectar—the same gulp the shithead had timed his cute comment to. No way was I giving him the satisfaction of spewing a drop. Besides, I’d already changed into my beloved Hamilton sleep shirt, purchased at the Richard Rodgers in New York after waiting three hours for tickets. Nothing got spilled on this shirt.
As soon as the fruity alcohol was down, I let my most annoying giggle fly, again right into the camera. “You’re a goof—and now, apparently, a lush as well.”
In the video call frame dominating my monitor, Ez toasted me with his fresh martini. Two olives dangled from the glass’s brim, speared with penis-shaped cocktail picks. “Hey, it’s happy hour somewhere in the world.”
“Like here?”
“That works.”
Actually, it was well past happy hour in Arcadia. The curtain of stars over the ocean, dancing between moonlit clouds, was an epic reminder of the fact. I gazed out into the firmament—I wasn’t into Biblical descriptions but this one was true—and struggled not to let it knock me off my chair. Wasn’t like I teetered in dorky third-rate patio furniture either. The Cimarrons knew how to treat their guests with style. Even here in the Palais’ guest wing, the rooms were like beachfront apartments, complete with patios outfitted with the same stuff as five-star resorts.
“It’s so beautiful here, Ez.” I swiveled the laptop outward. “Can you see this sky? The clouds…they even have shades of purple…”
“Shit.”
I yanked the screen back around. “Shit…what?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, tapping and clicking like a hacker who’d gotten into the Pentagon’s mainframe. “Purple skies? That means heavy rain, honey. Maybe even a hurricane.”
“Saint Paul wept.” I gave in to a full eye roll. “Are you serious? I know all about rain, Ez.” Sort of. “I’m not going to melt if a little water falls from the sky.”
“But they don’t call them hurricanes in the Mediterranean,” he went on, continuing with the click-and-type. “And when I was tracking the weather for the region this morning, there was a blip off to your west…”
“Whoa. Back up, bucky. You were tracking the weather for the Mediterranean?”
“Duh.” A fast pssshh. “As a favor to your mom. Like I do for all your trips.”
“Oh my God.”
“Come on. You totally know this, right?”
Groan. Head plant into a hand. “If she’s GPS’ing my phone too, I don’t want to know about it.”
He hadn’t heard me. His deeper glower said so, directed at the other stuff he’d been pulling up on his computer. “Uhhh, Luce?” he uttered slowly. “You packed protein bars, right? Like you always do for a trip? How many do you have left?”
“All right,” I ordered. “Stop. This is getting as bad as your cavalcade of apologies.”
That refocused him. “Which I meant, dammit. Every single one.”
“All of which were ridiculous.” As he pulled in a breath for a retort, I flashed up a firm hand. “It’s over, Ez. Does it suck that I had to fly all the way here to find that out? Of course. But sometimes, things happen for good reasons. Ambyr Stratiss was the wild card none of us was informed about.” And, if I was honest, probably a blessing in disguise. Though Ez didn’t have to know the fine print about it, even a “working relationship” with Shiraz Cimarron would’ve been stickier than juggling gummy bears. “If Love’s First Kiss still wants this gig after looking at her ‘idea book’,” I went on, “then God freakin’ speed to them. We’ll watch the train wreck and be thankful it isn’t ours.”
Ezra sighed. Grabbed a penis and teethed the olive off its tip. “Fine. You’re right.”
Cheeky grin. “Of course I am.”
“Still doesn’t stop me from being sorry. Again.”
“Gaaaahhh,”
“I’m a Jewish queen, darling. Guilt is my fifth food group.”
