Page 19 of Crocodile Tears
Dove shrugged. “Fine. Let your food get cold.” She sauntered off, swirling another forkful of pasta as she moved deeper into the restaurant.
I laughed as I watched her go, hope blooming in my chest as I wondered if maybe we might actually have a chance of being friends again.
Well, I’ll be damned. This just might work.
I picked up my plate and followed her.
Chapter Eleven
Dove
My neck hurt from craning it at the frescoed ceilings of the Holloway Estate. “I can’t believe he’s staying in this creepy place,” I murmured to myself. Floating through the giant space, my limbs felt too light. I shuddered as the hairs at the back of my neck lifted. “This place is giving seriousSaltburnvibes.”
The decor looked like something more akin to the Vatican than the nautical Prickle Island style I was used to. I’d never seen so many cherubs and gilded filigree in my life. I swore somewhere in the place was a sliding bookshelf that led to a secret dungeon.
Luca appeared through one of the many side doors down the long hallway. “Ms. Lachlan,” he said with a smile.
“Just Dove,” I corrected him.
Luca nodded and gestured for me to follow. “Deacon is just finishing his workout. He’ll be with you shortly. Can I get you a coffee or tea?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said tightly.
I side-eyed the portrait on the wall to my right. The painted old lady’s eyes followed me as I moved. If she stared any longer, it felt like I might stumble into an alternate dimension. I wiped my clammy hands on my shorts and hurried after Luca.
This was the sort of place Deacon and I had joked about living in as kids, but I’d never thought either of us meant it. Even if it was just a rental, it was like a walking fever dream.
Why did we want to live in this eerie place again?
Luca waved me into an ornate sitting room and left to go find Deacon, I presumed. My only company was two giant marble greyhounds sitting on either side of the fireplace like horror movie sentinels.
To avoid the stares of their hollow white eyes, I took my notebook out of my bag and started jotting down more notes for the Lucky Role Conservation Trust. We needed to get some of the high-level stuff out of the way before we could get into the minutia: mission statements, goals, commitments, branding, etc.
I spent twenty minutes writing detailed notes before I checked my watch and realized how much time had passed.
“Seriously,” I muttered aloud. I still had so much work to do, and sitting around in a random fancy—and frightening—sitting room was a complete waste of my time.
Having had enough, I shoved my notebook back in my bag and made a beeline for the stairs, finding loud pop music blaring from down the stairwell. I couldn’t believe he was still working out.
“Deacon!” I shouted, stomping up the creaking, old steps. “We have a meeting now.” I rushed down the oil-painting linedhallway and to the open door at the end of the hall. “You seriously need to hurry up because I haven’t got all the time in the world to sit around and wait for you to do sit-ups or whatever the hell it is?—”
My words ended on a choked gag as I turned the corner to find Deacon panting and glistening, a towel slung over the back of his neck, a tight black tank top revealing chiseled arms and the sides of his cut obliques. His face was ruddy with exertion as he tousled his wet hair off his face.
“Sorry,” he said, blotting his forehead with a towel. “Ricardo made me do a super set today.”
“I . . . uh . . .”Quickly, Dove, put some freaking words together!I held up a hand, covering Deacon’s torso so my brain could think. “Where are your clothes?”
“I’m wearing them?” He let out a hoarse laugh that was so ungodly sexy, and I hated him even more for it. “Am I distracting you?” Deacon asked tauntingly. How dare he lookand soundso hot.
“You are annoying me, is what you’re doing,” I grumbled.
“Sure,” he said, grabbing another towel off the seat of the rowing machine and blotting his face. My eyes trailed the ever-present leather necklace that dipped into the low neckline of his tank, the outline of some round talisman underneath. He’d probably gotten it on some LA yoga retreat or some other pseudo-spiritual bullshit.
My eyes roved his body as if they were magnetized to him. This man was the definition of bulging muscles. His arms were so defined that it looked like his personal trainer had sculpted each one from stone.
If anyone deserves a fruit basket, it’s Ricardo . . ..
I cleared my throat and looked up to the ceiling.
