Page 32 of Blind Prophet

“Don’t laugh.”

“Aye, won’t promise that.”

“We’re still married.”

“No shit? Huh. So she’s there to get papers signed or something or another. I’d say to cash in, but that’s not Caroline. She’s there to wrap it up, and you’re playing the pansy and hiding.”

“I’m not hiding. Work’s insane.”

“You still love her.”

I flatten my forehead against the cool glass.

“Can’t help you there, mate. But I will say that this call clears you from my list of suspects.”

I still love her. He’s right.

He goes on, rambling with his colloquial Brit humor while asking me questions about who I spoke to and the chatter about him, but my brain snags on that one true bit.

“What are you going to do?” Of course, he comes back to that question because he knows I’ve been half-listening, half-participating during his interrogative ramble.

What am I going to do? Shake her hand goodbye? Give her a goodbye hug? Repeat history? Watch her leave?

“Dorian? You there, mate?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare at the minute counter on the phone.

“Want some advice?”

“Shoot.”

“Get the fuck out of your office and go talk to her.”

I nod, not that he can see me.

“And if she has papers, tell her you’ll sign them after a lawyer looks them over. Then talk to her.”

“What’s with you giving me advice?”

“That’s why you called, isn’t it?”

Hmm. Yes. Maybe.

“I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah?”

“Because I didn’t think I’d have a best mate at my wedding. Now I know I will.”

“Best… You’re getting married?”

“Eventually. She’s not big on the marriage thing.”

“Is this…the redhead?”

“Scarlet.”

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