Page 53 of Pucking Curves

“Archer really ownsHelping Hands?”

“He does,” she says softly. “He has several different charities in DC.”

“Why this one?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Yeah, I think I do too. I’m just not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do about it. He should have told me. And I’m mad as hell that he didn’t.

“What are you going to do?”

WhatamI going to do?

“I’m going to Detroit,” I say, determined to get to the bottom of this even if I have to drag the truth from my infuriating husband’s deceitful lips.

Chapter Thirteen

Archer

“Micah.”

He flicks a glance in my direction and then grunts before stepping onto the elevator at the hotel, intent on ignoring me. But to hell with that. This is important.

I reach the doors just in time to shove my foot through the crack, preventing them from closing.

“Motherfucker,” Micah growls, glaring daggers at me when I step on beside him. He’s the only one inside. Good. “What do you want, Archer?”

“Have you heard from Wren?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Goddammit.” I shove my hands through my hair, exhaling a shaking breath. “I’ve been trying to call her since we got to the hotel this morning. She isn’t answering my texts, either.”

“Maybe she got tired of you.” Micah grins like the idea pleases him.

“Cut the shit, Rushing,” I snap, scowling at him. “Right now, I don’t really give a fuck if you’re pissed at me or not. Something is wrong. She wouldn’t just not answer her phone for this long. You know she wouldn’t.”

Micah’s smile slips, worry filtering through his expression. “Dammit,” he growls, fishing his phone from his pocket. He dials her number and then mutters a curse. “No service.”

I stab the button for the lobby, and the elevator jolts into motion. Neither of us says a word as it carries us down. I’m too fucking worried to talk. Wren would never ignore my calls unless something was wrong.

As soon as the elevator shudders to a stop, Micah and I step off. He immediately dials her number again. I hold my breath, praying she answers.

“Fuck,” he mutters when her phone goes straight to voicemail for him, too.

“Something is wrong.” I tug the strands of my hair, worry eating away at me. “Christ. I shouldn’t have left her. She promised she was okay after she talked to you, demanded that I go. I should have stayed anyway.”

Micah eyes me sideways. “You wanted to stay?”

“You made her cry,” I growl. “Of course I wanted to stay!”

“Shit,” he mumbles, genuine remorse filtering through his expression. There’s something else there too, but I don’t bother to read it. I don’t have the time or patience right now. This isn’t about him and our shit. It’s about his sister and the fact that she isn’t answering her phone.

I’m fucking worried, and so is he.

“Let’s head outside to meet everyone,” he says. “I’ll call Elodie, ask her to swing by and check on her.” He pauses. “I assume she’s at your place?”

“Yeah.”

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