“Or three.” The senior’s tone was pure I dare you.
“Okay,” Rio said. “No. Thanks. Thank you. Senior Chief. I was just, um...”
“Checking in?” The senior suggested a far more correct way to end Rio’s sentence. “Good. Paperwork’ll be on my desk in an hour. See you then.”
He hung up before Rio could get in so much as a Yes, Senior Chief.
Well, shit.
Rio’s phone swooshed with an incoming text. It was from Tasha. Is that no kelly green plaid, or no kelly green AND no plaid?
The 2nd, Rio answered her. Please.
Swoosh. Tasha could type with her thumbs ridiculously fast. Ok, but that cancels out your no-pink rule.
Fuuuck. He quickly typed, AND NO PINK.
You’ll look great in pink—with your dark hair and brown eyes? #dreamboat A brief pause and then another swoosh. Which is it, Rosetti? No kelly green or no pink? Apparently Tasha agreed with him about the no-plaid, thank god.
But Kelly green had often been worn by the prep school assholes who’d made his life miserable back when he was a teen, and the color still set his teeth on edge, so... No kelly green.
God help him, he was doing this.
Chapter Seven
Wednesday
Tuesday came and went without a war starting or a terrorist attack or any other reason to go wheels-up with SEAL Team Ten.
That meant Rio woke up on Wednesday morning with a full week’s leave looming, and a duffle bag filled with bright, new Luc-worthy clothing. Including an extremely pink T-shirt which he pulled on with his own comfortable, faded jeans that had been Tasha-approved. He wore it today not just to get it over with, but because Tasha was right. The bright color and snug fit looked really good on him. He’d added a handful of gel to his hair and managed a somewhat messy compromise between his usual untamed waves and the styled do Tasha had given him before the wedding. Luc probably would’ve been aghast, but the bastard was in London, wasn’t he?
Since Rio and his pink shirt and Luc-ish hair were traveling from San Diego, and Casey and the Air Biscuit were coming in from LA, the plan was to drive separately and meet at noon at the resort hotel in Palm Springs where the convention was being held.
Rio arrived about an hour early and got his car safely stashed in a small patch of shade in the self-parking lot. Casey would no doubt valet hers, and it was smart to have faster, easier access to at least one of their vehicles, in case they needed to make a quick departure from the venue. Although, to be honest, that security level was probably a notch or ten higher than Casey needed. Still, old habits were hard to shake, and it was better to err on the side of too-much rather than too-little.
Also, Rio hated most punk-ass valets. The majority did not appreciate Gertie, seeing her instead as an ancient POS, and they handled her without the proper love and respect she deserved. Plus self-park was free. At least it was at this resort.
Security was a hands-empty task, so he locked his bag in Gert’s trunk and headed up toward the main entrance to watch for Casey’s white Prius.
The place was nice. But it wasn’t really Palm Springs, which meant it didn’t have that cool, mid-century, I-Love-Lucy vibe. Instead, it was in Palm Desert. It was the golf resort version of a bland McMansion, identical to every other golf resort that lined aptly named Country Club Drive, with its large, sweeping driveway that wound through the ridiculously-green-for-a-desert grounds up to this circular main entrance.
The hotel had five floors of balconied rooms in two separate wings, plus the event rooms for the conference, and a large handful of various restaurants and outdoor wine bars with a multitude of fire pits. The sweeping golf course, along with three swimming pools, were out of sight around the back, along with a small village of two-story private villas for the extra richie-rich. Rio had done his homework and surfed the resort website, finding a map of the place that was not security-level accurate, but close enough for a two-day SciFi con.
Up close and in person, it wasn’t just nice, it was very nice. The desert colors and decor made the place blend in with the mountains and sky—as opposed to the kitschy Palm Springs the-Jetsons-have-landed-their-spaceship-next-to-a-hacienda effect that Rio preferred.
Still, he could appreciate this. It was designed to be soothing—a place of calm rest and relaxation.
The firetruck and various other emergency vehicles, all with their lights flashing as they were parked willy-nilly near the entrance, however, didn’t add to that calming effect.
The place didn’t look to be on fire—there was no hint of smoke.
“What’s going on?” Rio asked one of the bellhops, who was attempting to direct incoming traffic around the firetruck.
And hey, there was Casey and her brother, a few cars back.
“I don’t smell smoke,” Jon said from the passenger seat as Casey waited in a line of cars slowed by the presence of a very large, very red fire truck at the resort entrance. “I’m still on hold.”
And hey, there was Luc, looking adorable in a bright pink T and a pair of extremely nice-fitting jeans, talking to a resort-uniformed woman who was waving the traffic past all the emergency vehicles with their flashing lights.
