He yawns, then bats at an invisible pixie somewhere above him, roll-jumps to his feet, and takes off like something grabbed his tail.
My phone dings with a text message from Kiva, my favorite person on my security team.
They’re here.
The butterflies in my stomach flutter harder, and a very unladylike noise grumbles out of my midsection, this one louder than anything I’ve dealt with previously today.
Hashtag looks up from attacking a cloth mouse in the doorway to the bedroom.
“Shh,” I whisper to my stomach.
It gurgles and twists.
My cat abandons his toy and heads over to me to investigate, hopping onto the couch next to me and sniffing toward my face.
“Who’s a good boy?” I scratch his ears, and I’m rewarded with his distinctive purr as he tries to crawl back into my lap again.
My stomach rumbles.
He springs up like he’s seen a terrifying cucumber, and once again, dashes away to bounce off the walls, ultimately skidding into the bathroom.
“Hashtag,” I say, “don’t—”
Thump.
“—run into the wall,” I finish.
I rise, the door clicks, and then I feel it.
That’snotmy stomach.
That’s my intestines.
And this isn’t normal angry belly.
The realization smacks me in the chest and jolts every organ in my body south of my ribs.
This isn’t nerves. This isn’t sensitive stomach.
This is bad shrimp.
And bad is about to get much, much worse.
9
Cooper
Breath mints?Check.
Deodorant? Check.
Condoms? Check.
No pressure, I’m telling myself as Waverly’s red-headed, resting I-take-no-shit face security team lead stares me down on the way up the service elevator at the back of the hotel.Take it slow. We’re here to talk. Let her lead. Don’t spook her, but don’t be afraid to commit if talking goes well. The condoms are break-in-case-of-the-best-kind-of-emergency only.
Shit.
Shit.
