“Ooookay.” Though her tone clearly indicated the opposite.
I shook my head, needing to clear it. “So . . . about the scar?” I tried to get us back to the subject at hand.
“Yes. Exactly. Let’s start with what we do know.” She gave a tight smile and began typing. “One, you are the only one who can see the scar. Two, the scar has a physical presence for you. Three, the sludge that comes through the scar appears similar to the Chucky phenomenon. Four, the scar reacts when Branwell and Tennyson use their GUTs around it—”
Upbeat music cut through the room, Meghan Trainor loudly telling me her name wasNo.
Chiara’s ringtone.
Ah.How apropos.
“Hello. Chiara D’Angelo speaking.”
As Chiara listened to the person on the other end, her chest caved, brows drawing down, lips pursing. Her entire body sank into a frown.
“Ms. White—” Chiara began. Paused. “Candy . . . fine, whatever. As I have repeatedly said—”
More listening. I could hear a muted female voice talking quickly on the other end of the line.
Chiara huffed. “Ms. White, I have no comment on Jack Knight-Snow’s physical appearance.” She spoke through stiff lips, words crisp. “Please stop contacting me.”
Chiara stabbedEndand slapped her phone down on the table.
“Honestly!” Chiara snorted in disgust, lasering her eyes at me. “That stupid woman wanted me describe you like it was some sort of strip tease. Gah! At the very least, you should be taking these phone calls yourself.” She jabbed a finger at my chest.
“Me? Heavens, no. I would infinitely prefer to listen toyoudescribe my dashing person.”
Chiara’s glare could slay a man at fifty paces.
I breathed a sigh of relief.Thereshe was. All was right in the universe.
“You need to hire an assistant, Jack. Or, at the very least, figure out a way to carry a phone of your own.”
“Or you could simply not answer the phone,” I countered.
“Company phone.” She tapped it. “Some calls are from legitimate clients. I can’tnotanswer it.” She shook her head, turning back to her laptop screen. “So, Lord Smarty-Pants, what do you have to add to this?”
“To the description of my appearance? Well, I would say I was a devastatingly handsome Corinthian of the highest mark.”
Her gaze turned withering.
“Oh, you meant the scar and the D’Angelos.” My grin was decidedly unrepentant.
She breathed daggers.
“And to think I—” Chiara abruptly stopped.
“To think you what?”
She swallowed and then bit her lip, shaking her head. “Nothing.”
“In my best twenty-first century slang, you can’t leave me hangin’ like that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Watch me, Jack.”
I grinned.
She glared.
