I smirk. “They’re good cookies.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly. “Nothing compared to the pistachio ones.”
Our exchange garners the barest shift in her posture before she slips out.
I don’t try to stop her. Whatever drove her to me had to be monumental because I’m the last man she’d ever want to ask for help.
I walk to the window just to torture myself, desperate for one more glimpse.
She’s crossing the lot, climbing into a UTV. That blue dress of hers catches the fading light, hem fluttering around those long, tan legs I used to dream about being wrapped around me.
Still do, asshole.
Another UTV pulls up with Scarlett and Beau. He walks over to Romy, holding papers. He’s smiling, but she breaks the distance, her hand touching his arm, and his smile falls. He nods. They talk for one or two seconds before she climbs into the UTV and drives off.
Then Beau glances up at me. He sees me watching then shakes his head, laughing to himself.
Great. Now he’s gonna give me hell.
I wait for the knock, but he doesn’t bother. The door clicks open.
“Last I checked, this isn’t your room,” I grumble.
“Figured you wouldn’t let me in.” He tosses the papers onto the bed and finishes off the cookie he must have taken when he passed by reception. “These are some of the best cookies I’ve ever had.”
“I guess the pistachio ones are the best.”
“Really? Says who?”
“So?” I change the subject, not wanting to talk about Romy and how when she confessed her favorite cookie, I wanted to go down to the kitchen and beg the chef to teach me how to make them just to impress her.
“Here’s the deal. I granted your wish. Again. Which makes this a helluva lot more than three, so you’re out of genie requests. Then I hear you changed your damn mind?”
I grab my guitar, sitting on the edge of the mattress and settling it on my lap.
“Zan?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “We’re staying.”
Beau glares at me when I glance up at him. “You’re a fucker, you know that? Scarlett Ellis isn’t all sunshine and fucking roses. She threatened my balls. Promised to slit my throat. Might’ve cursed my unborn children. She’s probably gone back to that office of hers to put a hex on me.”
I arch a brow.
“Okay, maybe not,” he admits. “But it wouldn’t shock me if that’s next. So now I have to tell her we’re back on?”
“Yep.” I strum a chord casually.
“I quit.”
“You say that every day.”
“And if you weren’t such a sorry ass, I’d mean it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
He shakes his head, muttering as he grabs the papers again. “I should.”
“Probably.”
