Page 69 of Wild Card
Alas, my tenure as a burrowing owl has ended. Because the man paying me to help actually requires my help. Maybe if things get awkward downstairs, I can try my hand at impersonating a fainting goat.
I tell Clyde I’m on my way and force a smile onto my face as I head out of my room. The bitter aroma of coffee wafts up to meet me, and the sound of low voices conversing filters in my ears. I make my way downstairs, and right before I enter the kitchen, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket to see another message from Clyde. When I click it open, I laugh.
Clyde: I can’t believe you dated this guy. He’s a full-blown douchebag.
I can’t help but smile down at the screen as I type back. Clyde isn’t wrong. Tripp isn’t all bad—people usually aren’t—but when that less-charming side comes out to play it is very…less charming.
Gwen: I know. ;)
I hit send, wipe the humor from my features, and shove my phone into my back pocket. Then I plaster another fake smile onto my face and round the corner into the kitchen as I singsong an overly bright “Good morning!” to everyone in the room.
Tripp’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.
Bash scowls at him and then at me.
And Clyde just leans back in his chair, shaking his head with an amused smirk on his face.
Yeah, he’s getting far too much enjoyment out of this.
“Gwen,” Bash replies matter-of-factly, tipping his chin once in my direction. It’s a simple, no-nonsense, no-feelings,I-never-told-you-I-could-fuck-you-better-than-your-extype of gesture.
Tripp gives me a smooth “Hey, Gwen, you look beautiful this morning.”
It takes monumental effort not to roll my eyes.
I can feel Bash’s energy without even looking at him. It’s a flashing red light. I finally brave looking over at him and can read him like a page out of my favorite book. He hates everything about this situation.
But he’ll never say anything.
Clyde, on the other hand, looks me straight in the eye and announces, “This one can’t stay in my bunker when the apocalypse hits.”
Tripp misses the sentiment entirely, laughing like Clyde is joking.
Leaned against the counter, Bash doesn’t laugh.
I take a moment to figure out my next move, how to act naturally. Keep it casual. I try to not to let my eyes linger on Bash for too long or give too much away.
But it’s hard.
Especially when he’s wearing something that looks like a uniform right now.
Navy-blue cargo pants hug his thighs in a way that I should not be openly admiring. Above a utilitarian black belt, strapped around his narrow waist, a matching navy T-shirt stretches across his broad chest. A crest printed withBC Fire Servicesits over his heart.
At his feet, a duffel bag.
My heart lurches.
He’s leaving.
When I drag my vision back up to his level, I blurt, “Why are you dressed like that?” When I really meanYou have no right looking so good wearing thator evenPlease don’t go.
“Fire,” he says gruffly. “Got the call early this morning. Heading out right away.”
My brows furrow. “Are you cleared to work?”
Bash just shrugs. “Close enough. I’ll be sitting in a plane, not doing anything on the ground. I’ve taken a few weeks off since the surgery and I flew with Tripp the other day, no problem, so I don’t need you being a mother hen about it.”
I bristle at that and clamp my molars together to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. Clearly, we’re back to the be-an-asshole-as-a-defense-mechanism strategy that he tried to employ the night before.
