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Chapter Seven
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“You are so dead.”
“Says you.”
“Peachy go…peachy go…yessss.”
“Whaaaa?”
“Score! Princess power!”
“That was intense.”
“Darn right. And the girl owns your guts—again.”
Tracy closed the book she’d been attempting to read as a distraction after six hours of cable news binging. With Ronnie and Gem handling all the latest from the internet feeds, she’d been left to listening for carefully-couched clues in the broadcasts about the investigation’s progress. After one hour, the duty could be qualified as tedious. After two, as enjoyable as babysitting snails. After six, the existence of usable gray matter was dubious—evidenced by the fact that Mario and Princess Peach were suddenly more interesting than getting lost in a moonlit French garden with a French princess and the Versailles viscount assigned to protect her.
Mia started a new game, including Ethan on the challenge this time. He picked Donkey Kong as his avatar, launching the teens into a meme quote war—and blasting Tracy a cue to dive back into the book.
The viscount and his lady were the last of her options, perhaps her sanity. No way could she sit in Zeke’s office and watch another second of talking heads, but Gem and Ronnie were also on break, so entertainment options were limited at the moment. Franzen tossed her phone before they left Vegas, adding to the ruse that she’d died there—and to be honest, she hardly missed the thing. A break from being tethered to the device had been heaven, though she couldn’t claim the same for all the other restrictions the dragon put into place. No eating too many Nutter Butters, her go-to comfort food, because somebody might notice the boxes in the trash. No doing her daily round of jumping jacks, burpees, and high-knee jogs, because Rayna and Zeke had confirmed they were gym rats when Z was stateside, and the neighbors would get curious about their “odd behavior”.
None of it made her as crazy as the windows.
Not peeking from one, let alone opening one. No sky. No clouds. No treetops. Not even any panoramic city views, which she’d only guessed at by the distant traffic sounds she could pick up—through the closed condo windows.
She hadn’t even been dead a day, and she really missed windows.
“La la la la…smash!”
“Seriously?”
“Luke. Dude. You keep leading with the same move.”
“Because it’s a good move, Ethan!”
“The definition of insanity is trying the same thing and expecting different results.”
“More Franzen wisdom?”
“Errrm…that’s Albert Einstein, kid.”
“Huh. Just sounded a lot like Franzen.”
And there it was.
Again.
Franzen.
The subject making her more restless than the window ban. The man who wouldn’t leave her memories—and her imagination—alone. Not since he’d stepped through those midnight shadows, shattering the lustful tension between them. Fitted his huge cock to her thrumming cleft. Filled her senses with his exotic scent. Drenched her every breath with hot, illicit craving for him…
Restless?
No.
This wasn’t “restless”.
