Relief that she’s okay floods my body.
She’s okay.
She’s in one piece.
One beautiful, glorious, curly-haired, wide-blue-eyed, full-breasted, baby-carrying piece.
And all of that relief almost instantly headbutts againsttheshit, we’re caughtpanic taking over thedid something happen to herpanic, and I leap to my feet and almost trip over my boot.
“Oh my god, the way everyone kept staaaaarr—oh, fuuuuuuuck.”
Crew drops his chocolate bar on my couch.
Porter makes a choking noise.
Zander stares at her, mostly in horror, which is a mirror of how she’s now staring at me.
“Heh. Called it,” Silas mutters.
Fletcher shoves him. “Shut up.”
“Called what?” Tatum asks.
Everyone else just keeps staring while Ziggy’s face breaks out in that blotchy blush.
I curl my hands into fists to keep myself from leaping across the room to wrap her in a hug and hustle her out of here, which would give us away.
But what won’t?
What the fuckwon’t?
“Thanks for coming, food lady,” Fletcher says. “We need to talk about the banquet menu and there’s no fucking way we’re talking about it when there are cameras in the office. I don’t want witnesses to my opinions.”
Ziggy blinks at him while I freeze halfway across the room, blocking the TV as the announcer shouts about a goal.
“There are cameras in the office?” she says to Fletcher.
My wingman.
It’s impossible to not love and hate him at the same time.
He shakes his head as he replies, “Yeah, they’re everywhere. In case anyone does anything that’ll go viral on the internet and sell more tickets.”
“There aren’t fucking cameras,” I mutter.
My heart is about to beat out of my chest.
Only about a quarter of the team is here, but all of them have phones with cameras, and all of them know that Ziggy Barnes should not be in my house.
Crew’s staring at me. So is Porter.
“Fuck yeah, we scored,” Tatum says. “But wait. What’s wrong with the catering menu for the banquet?”
“It’s tofu,” Fletcher says.
“With a side of lima beans,” Silas adds.
Freaking both of them.
