Page 33 of Double Apex

Phaedra emits an unladylike snort. “He faked me out, pretending he wanted to talk. He was getting rid of me. I suspect his ‘urgent matter’ is a certain lying blue-eyed brunette journalist with a compelling pair of 36C tits.”

The bitterness in her delivery surprises me.

“Have you and Miss Evans quarreled?”

She ignores my question and plows on. “But I can imagine—given your penchant for predawn tumbles with random-ass hotel maids—you think some tawdry hookup is a perfectly good excuse to flake last minute on plans, right?” She whips her book open again and the cover flap cuts her finger. She yelps and the book tumbles, hitting the floor in a flutter of pages.

I thrust one hand into my messenger bag as I grasp her wrist with the other to prevent her from putting the wounded finger into her mouth.

“Don’t,” I instruct softly, withdrawing a canteen of water. I take a clean handkerchief out and moisten it before passing it to her.

“Thanks,” she mutters, dabbing the fingertip.

I duck to retrieve the book, then move to join her. As I set the book on her legs, I’m surprised to see she’s wearing a short skirt. One of my fingers ruffles the fringed hem and she smacks my hand with a little growl.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Formula Fuckboy.”

“You’re wearing white,” I can’t help pointing out.

“It’s the only color in my size they had in the hotel’s boutique.” She checks whether the cut is still bleeding, then stuffs the handkerchief into her beach bag. “I’ll wash it and give it back later.”

“That’s not necessary.” I hold out a hand.

“Yeah, no. I’m not giving you a handkerchief with my blood.”

“Afraid I’ll cast a spell on you?” I tease. “If I haven’t already…”

“Your confidence would be impressive if it weren’t so annoying.” She puts the book into her bag and folds her arms. “What kind of anachronistic freak carries handkerchiefs anyway?”

“‘Anachronistic,’” I repeat. “You think I’m old-fashioned?”

“I’m pretty sure cotton hankies went out with Jell-O salads and Benny Goodman.”

“And yet—as you saw—they’re useful on occasion.” I give her a wink.

“Okay, the wink made it gross. Now I’m assuming you mean something sexual, andno, please don’t elaborate if that’s the case.” She rummages through her bag, pulls out a pair of oversize sunglasses, and puts them on before leaning back. “Now leave me alone, please.”

Under the guise of watching the scenery, I examine her face for a minute. There’s a slight tremble to her lower lip.

“I’m correct, yes, about you and Miss Evans?” I venture. “I’ve not seen you in each other’s company for—”

“Think you’re pretty clever, figuring that out?” she snaps. Her brows crumple above the sunglasses. “Zero points for reading the room, dude.”

“I apologize.”

“It’s none of your damned business.” Her throat dips as she swallows hard and turns toward the window, jaw clenched. “Just because I lost Nat and might lose my dad too doesn’t mean I need a new friend. You can fuck right off.”

This is the moment I realize Ed Morgan must be dying.

I wish the fact that Jakob is a nondrinker meant the bar on the boat would not be fully stocked, but he and Inge are consummate hosts and cocktails flow freely.

Georgie has finished her second espresso martini before noon and insists upon sitting next to me even after I manufacture a pretense to move. Phaedra is on a lounge chair nearby, reading.

“How many languages do you speak?” Georgie purrs, her bottle-tanned face propped on one palm. I’ve removed her hand from my thigh more than once. Her fake lashes are applied imperfectly, and I try not to focus on the crooked left one.

“Five, but only three well—Romanian, French, and English.”

“Debatable on English!” Phaedra pipes up. Despite the insult, I find myself gratified that she’s listening.

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