The woman bore zero resemblance to the girl who’d vanished six years ago. No amount of “Nicky and Kelly”-ing was going to convince him that the busty, leopard-print woman sitting on his couch was Beth Fucking Weber.
A scam, he decided, the cup making an ominous cracking noise in his hand. It had to be a scam.
Brian wheeled back into the room with a bag of ice and an Ace bandage.
“Here,” he said, offering them to Weber, who was sitting on the couch clutching his abused ribs and staring at Beth—or whatever her real name was—next to him.
Gabe had left to escort Willicott and Mrs. Penny home before any more damage could be done.
Josie, ever alert for threats, had taken a sentry position behind the couch in case “Beth” required a choke hold.
His gaze traveled to Riley, who looked like she was taking slow deep breaths.
He wanted to go to her. Wanted to brush her hair back from her face and force her to tell him what was wrong since he wasn’t the mind reader in the relationship. But his feet were rooted to the spot.
His hand and wrist were wet. Looking down, he realized he’d cracked the cup the whole way down. Hurriedly he chugged the contents—then, because it was a thirty-dollar bottle of booze, he licked his forearm.
He slammed the cup carcass down on the mantel and leaned into the cool marble, his gaze on his boots.
Sensing her, he glanced up as Riley approached, listing to the side as if the gravitational pull of the earth was crooked today.
“You okay?” they asked in unison.
“You first,” he insisted.
She slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Sure. Yeah. Totally fine. You?”
“Great. Awesome.”
“Good. Good.” She nodded, then tipped backward and caught herself against the bookcase.
Nick frowned. “Are you drunk?”
“No! You’re the one winning the one-man bourbon-chugging contest.”
“I was thirsty. You’re the one stumbling around like my Uncle Martin after he’s hit the eggnog on Christmas Eve.”
“I’m fine,” she said, looking anything but fine.
Nick scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “So, she’s a fraud, right? A scammer?” Beth Weber had not just wandered into his house after an unexplained, six-year absence.
Riley blew out a breath then bit her lip. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? Can’t your spirit guides tell you?”
Her gaze flicked to the couch. “I…I’m having trouble getting a read on her.”
“What the hell does that mean?” He knew he sounded like an impatient asshole, but the circumstances and the bourbon called for it.
She shook her head, then immediately stopped, squeezing her eyes shut.
“That’s it. You’re sitting the hell down, Thorn,” he ordered.
“I’m fine,” she repeated with belligerence.
“Oh, really?” He poked his index finger into her shoulder and smirked when she swayed backward.
He caught her by the arms and backed her into the chair. “Sit the hell down and stay away from Busty Barbie until I know who she is and what she wants.”
