“We should get out of here.” I tap her coffee cup, urging her to finish her espresso.
She sips but eyes me with a taunt over the rim. “There’s still a half hour left.”
“Happens every year. We’ll stay late next time.”
She stifles a laugh and bottoms out her cup, so I slide her chair back from the table, but Axel grabs my arm.
“Thanks for sticking around. Did Trafton ever find you?”
Theo Trafton is the guy that Mercy and I passed on the way to the escape room.
“No.” I decline to share how I blew him off. “Why did he need me specifically?”
“I don’t know.” He scrubs his jaw, inspecting the half-full tables—not everyone makes it to breakfast. “He seemed jittery, but I don’t see him now.”
“Who’s Trafton?” Mercy asks. “Do the names of all these members ever get confusing?”
“The names aren’t important until they are.” I’m not sure that’s what she’s looking for, but it’s the truth. It’s like a principal who knows hundreds or thousands of students’ names, but they only matter when there’s an issue, good or bad.
And this might be one of those times. Maybe there’s no connection, and I’m jumping the gun, but Trafton is in The Order. Monroe Montgomery is in The Order. Mercy’s father was in The Order. Dalton wasn’t. I’m not sure why any of that matters, but something tells me it could. So, I open my phone and slide it to Axel, showing him the email from Monroe.
Axel’s forehead pinches. “You think it’s related?”
“Weird timing.”
“Yeah,” he agrees on a ragged breath. “You two get outta here. If I find him, I’ll call.”
That’s his way of covering for me since he likely assumes I haven’t shared with Mercy. It’s obvious he’s as unsettled as I am. We’ll need to dig into this later. And I probably will tell Mercy. If I want her to be my partner, to have ownership over the role she’s sliding into, I need to treat her as a queen who can handle things. Or at least give her the choice as to whether she wants to be informed.
But now, I’m whisking my girl up to the penthouse so I can take my time with her and give us a fresh start.
Remy has been waking up around eight lately, so that should give us a couple of hours. Plus, Tessa is planning on taking care of him today since we need to sleep.
So, with my hungry woman curled around me and her mouth glued to mine, I sneak us into the penthouse, all the way to my room, much like I did after the rooftop party. Though this feels so much bigger.
That was exploratory. Testing. This is solidifying. Beginning.
After locking the door, I carry her into the bathroom, where we both kick off our shoes.
“Showering me first?” she asks between kisses.
“Bathing.” I bite her lower lip to garner her attention because I’ve been waiting for this for a fucking eon. “Or more like baptizing.”
That does it.
She stills, stutters a laugh, and surveys my face before glancing around the candlelit bathroom.
The far wall is glass, overlooking the skyline, the first muted tangerine glimmers of daybreak ricocheting off the buildings and history and slivers of the Mississippi River. In front of it is a grand hammered copper tub—the focal point of the otherwise neutral decor.
“I forgot how stunning it was in here.” Her breath hitches then, like my baptism comment is catching up to her. She wanders toward the tub, a good twenty feet from the doorway, and turns to me, wide-eyed at what she found. “What’s in there? Champagne?”
As the last syllable leaves her mouth, I drop my phone, wallet, and dice on the counter, noting the upturned seven and five. A thrill unfurls in my chest. It’s not the first time I’ve rolled that, of course, but it reads like the win of all wins.
I shrug out of my suit jacket and lay it across a bench by the wall, closer to where she is. “You should know better than that. Everything’s better with—”
“Cognac,” she finishes, though her expression is incredulous. “You filled the bathtub with French 75?”
“Yes. I think it’s a creative spin on the coveted champagne bath.”
