Page 123 of Mexico Can Choke On It
My detective brain starts firing on all cylinders: Wedding mysteriously fast-tracked by eight weeks? Yep.
Sketchy chemistry with Echo the Walking Art Project? Double yep.
Prenup weirdness that’s got my brother snippier than usual? Triple yep.
And suddenly Princess Perfect’s trust fund has apparently evaporated into thin air?
This whole clusterfuck smells fishier than a seafood restaurant dumpster in August.
“If direct contact with your father proves unsuccessful, perhaps Mr. Brinkman could provide alternative financial arrangements—”
“NO! Gavin cannot find out about any of this! He’s…” She stiffens. “He’s already overwhelmed with his company affairs. I’ll sort this out myself. Give me twenty-four hours.”
Hold up.Gavin’s clueless? Did Fiona just crawl out of a cave, or does she really believe my brother—Mr. “I Can Fix Anything With a Spreadsheet and a Stern Glare”—is okay being sidelined when there’s a crisis? Nothing gives him a bigger hard-on than swooping in with his cape and solving a problem.
If she’s not going to tell him, I sure as fuck am.
“Very well, but should this financial irregularity persist beyond tomorrow’s deadline, Casa Cashmere will need to terminate your wedding ceremony.”
“I will sell my dead grandmother’s entire vintage perfume collection before that happens,” Fiona whispers, her voice cracking as sheswipes at tears streaming down her contoured cheeks. “You’ll have your money. This wedding is not getting cancelled.”
Holy crap. I’ve never heard Fiona sound anything but smugly superior. She doesn’t crack under pressure. She doesn’tdodesperate.
“If you’ll pardon me, it is time for Miss Muffy to be retrieved from her hot stone massage. She requires her blow-dry appointment before this evening’s dinner service.”
Shitshitshitshitshit!Nigel’s walking straight toward the door—toward me.
Glancing down the long marble hallway, I know I’m screwed. I’ll never make it around the corner without being spotted. I throw myself into a nearby door, praying to whatever gods protect nosy bitches that it’s just a boring linen closet.
Please be towels. Please be towels. Don’t be a room full of naked oil barons getting their balls shaved.
The door closes with a click, and I find myself in a large dimly lit treatment room that is… blissfully empty.Thank you, universe.
My mind spins with unanswered questions. Why did Fiona bump up the wedding timeline? What’s the rush? And if she’s hiding a bomb this big from Gavin—money stuff, wedding stuff, whatever-the-hell-this-is stuff—what other skeletons is she cramming into her already overflowing Prada closet?
“Excuse me, is someone there?”
My wretched soul leaves my body… I know that voice.
In the dim corner of the room, barely visible in the soft lighting, a figure lies face-down on a massage table.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Bryce.
“I’ve been waiting for my appointment,” he says, shifting like he’s about tolook up.
Panic hijacks my nervous system.
“Ah! Nyet! No moving, da?” I bark in a disguised accent. I sprint to the table, shoving his head down into the face cradle. “Ees very, very bad for ze spine vhen you move during preparation of muscles!”
What accent is this? German? Transylvanian?
Nope. It’s Oksana. The Russian wax technician who ripped the soul from my bikini line earlier. Her voice must’ve burned itself into my subconscious, along with the smell of hot sugar and the phrase, “You vill not cry!”
He hesitates. “You’re my masseuse?”
“Yes,” I say, still doingThe Accent.“She—I am late. I come here. You relax.”
I must be doing a pretty good Oksana impression, because Bryce moans out an “okay” and settles in.
