"You always do this. Leave before the good stuff happens."
Ford crosses his arms.
"It’s called responsibility. You should try it sometime."
Missy snorts, already taking shots from the tray.
"Responsibility’s overrated."
Jensen tries again, insistent.
"Come on, just one. No harm in staying a little longer, right?"
Ford glances towards me and he just sighs.
“I really should go.”
Jensen sighs dramatically.
I take a tiny glass from Missy, watching as Ford steps back. She and Jensen clink their glasses, toasting to something I don’t quite catch, and I throw my head back, swallowing the shot in one smooth motion.
Ford watches. His eyes are fixed on my throat.
For a moment, he looks like he’s at war with himself, like some part of him wants to stay. His jaw tightens, and his throat bobs.
Then his phone dings and the sound breaks whatever spell he was under. He flinches, pulls the phone from his pocket, glances at the screen … and walks off.
I blink, surprised by the strange twist in my stomach. I hadn’t expected to want him to stay. It’s not like we’ve shared anything real. But something about the way he looked at me makes his absence sting more than it should.
Jensen slides another shot my way.
“To the Queen,” he says with a wink.
I laugh, but my gaze lingers on the door.
14
Stormy
Iwake to a soft knocking. It doesn’t sound urgent, but it’s enough to pull me out of sleep like a thread unravelling. Umm what?
A dull, throbbing weight presses against my skull, and my throat feels as though it has been lined with sandpaper, every swallow a slow punishment. How much did I drink last night?
Missy groans beside me, buried under the covers like a disgruntled burrito.
“Ughh … tell them to go away,” she mumbles, face pressed into the pillow.
I blink at the ceiling for a moment, and then I peel myself out of bed, bending to squint into the vanity mirror. My hair’s a disaster, half curls, half chaos. I scoop it into a loose ponytail with a scrunchie, wincing at the sight of my own puffy eyes.
Theres a slight chill in the air, so I grab my dressing gown from the hook and shrug it over my shoulders as I pad down the stairs.
The knocking’s stopped now, but I still feel it echoing somewhere behind my eyes. I have no idea who it could be, all my deliveries aren’t due to arrive for another few days.
I crack the door open, just a sliver, and immediately wince. The light outside brutal, sharp and unforgiving. I squint through it and catch the shape of someone walking away.
Ford.
He’s halfway down the path with something in his hands; shoulders hunched like he didn’t expect me to answer.
