The worktable’s crooked. There’s the broken coffee mug on the ground. That filing cabinet drawer—it’s bent, and there’s a crowbar on the floor next to it.
I suppress another shiver and look back at Davis.
“Did you pull any muscles? Strain anything? Twist anything?”
“You’re a nurse.”
Teenage me squeals in my head.He remembers who I am!
I tell her to shut up because when he finds out the other thing I’ve been doing, he’s probably going to have a restraining order filed against me.
Also, why is my imaginary fiancé in a place where a crime just happened? And in a place he shouldn’t even know how to get into?
Because you really know how to pick men, Sloane.
Even the imaginary boyfriends have questionable character.
Awesome.
Also, I am never buying another dress without pockets in my entire life.
Ever.
You don’t need your phone to be on glitter patrol, Sloane. There will be security people everywhere. Plus, Waverly and Cooper were pretty firm about not wanting people having opportunities to take pictures to slip to the paparazzi.
That’s what I told myself.
That I didn’t need my phone today. That I didn’t have to figure out how to shove it in my cleavage. That it would fall out and I’d lose it.
And now I’d give both of my boobs and all of my cleavage to have my phone on me.
I watch Davis watching me. “That’s me. Doc Adamson’s nurse. Does anything hurt? Should I go find him too?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Who was that?”
Blank stare.
“How did you get in here?”
“Security system needs an upgrade.”
“Whyare you in here?”
“You should change the code on the doors immediately.” He rises to his feet with the grace of a cat like he truly didn’t bruise, pull, or tear anything when he went down, navigating the slick spot on the floor without issue this time. He’s in suit pants and a long-sleeve button-up, definitely dressed for a wedding compared to what he’s usually wearing, though his pants are splattered with coffee that also shouldn’t have been in here. Hints of the tattoos covering his arms peek out at his wrists as he straightens his cuffs.
He pulls out his phone and starts snapping pictures likehe’sthe freaking sheriff.
And he still doesn’t answer.
It’s pissing me off.
This isn’t technically my museum, but after the hours I’ve spent after work and on the weekends to fundraise for the building, collecting display items from the Rock family and even venturing into enemy territory to get historical artifacts from people in Shipwreck’s rival town of Sarcasm just a little north of here, planning the museum’s grand opening, gathering volunteers, and volunteering myself now that it’s open, I feel an ownership of this place.
