Page 43 of The Late Hit
Q gives me a puzzled look. George has been doing events for us for a long time. When I was in high school, he’d always slip me a glass—or two—of champagne. In middle school, he’d make me the best Shirley Temples, with extra cherries.
“Hi, George.” I lean over the bar, planting a quick kiss on the old man’s cheek. “I’ll have a glass of champagne, and my handsome date will have—”
“Bourbon, on the rocks, please.”
George starts making our drinks.
“Bourbon tonight?” I ask, turning to face Quinton, leaning my back on the bar. The cold material cools my heated skin.
“Thought I’d try to be a little classy tonight, Miss Champagne.”
I just smile. Grabbing our drinks, we move through the crowd of people. Eyes follow us everywhere—shocked to see the missing Wilder child. Our table is in the front where we are joined by my parents, Daniel and Grace Nelson, and two empty chairs.
“Darling, there you are,” mother greets us.
Quinton slides my chair out before sitting next to me.
“Mother,” I greet, downing the rest of my champagne. “Daniel, Grace, it’s wonderful to see you both.”
“Hi, sweetie,” Grace chimes in. “Quinton, how are you enjoying the city?”
Quinton’s tongue escapes his mouth, using it to wipe the remaining bourbon from his lips. Stretching his arm, he places it across my chair and begins skating his thumb across my shoulder. My eyes track the movement of his tongue, my panties no longer dry.
Well that’s a new development.
Wiping his mouth from his sip of bourbon, he places his arm across my chair, rubbing my shoulders.
“Wilder took us for quite the ride this morning,” he says, and a small chuckle escapes my mouth.
Father grunts before chiming in. “I imagine she did, since she stole my car.”
Rolling my eyes, I fold my hands, resting them in my lap.
“Oh Daddy, you call it stealing, I call it borrowing. What were we supposed to drive? It’s not like I have a car here.”
“Any other goddamn car,” he grumbles before Mother changes the subject.
“How long are you here for?”
Signaling to a waiter, I point to my empty glass and hold up two fingers while Quinton holds up one finger for himself.
“Our flight is at six thirty tomorrow morning.”
She harrumphs. I can only imagine that she’s counting down the minutes until the problem child is out of her hair.
“So soon?” a voice from behind me interjects, pulling out the seat next to me.
Glancing up to see who so rudely interrupted this riveting conversation, my breath stalls.
“Tristan?”
I stare at the boy, now a man, who sits down beside me. So many of his features match his cousin’s. It’s like looking at a ghost.
“Hi Brinley,” Tristan says, leaning in for a hug.
Tristan Nelson is Asher’s older cousin. Growing up, if Asher wasn’t with us, he was hanging out with his cousin. All of us spent a lot of time together when we were younger.
“You look stunning,” he adds, perusing my body.
