Blaise laughs. “Dammit, that’s why you talked to us that day at the ball game. You’ve been playing the long game.”
“She married me for my connections,” Butch says, deadpan, and we all crack up laughing.
“Calla, beloved,” Jordan wheedles, “my queen of diamonds, did you get the cheddar with butterscotch that I like?”
“Queen of diamonds, hey? I like that.” She looks at the cheese platter. “It’s right… fuck. I know I bought it. Let me check the kitchen; otherwise it’s at our place and I’ll bring it next time.”
“Or I could come and pick it up,” Jordan suggests as she heads in that direction. “It’s really good cheese,” he explains to Griff. “I can’t get it when I’m in Houston, so I have to eat as much as possible here.”
“Plus it’s not really part of your diet plan during the season,” Polly points out.
“Shh. We don’t need to discuss that right now.”
Calla comes back in, her hands full. She tosses Jordan the wrapped cheese, and he yelps and lunges to catch it. “There you go. Phil, this is for you.” She lobs the small, taped-up box in my direction, but before I have to duck—because catching isn’t a skill I have—Griff nabs it out of the air.
“What is it?” I ask. “It doesn’t look like cheese.”
She scoffs. “It’s the stupid package that was outside our door when we left. The one I nearly tripped over. I shoved it in my bag and forgot about it, but it’s addressed to you.”
Griff frowns at the box as I hold a hand out expectantly. “It’s not addressed at all,” he corrects. “It just has Phil’s name on it.”
“Maybe one of the neighbors left me something. I made three prom dresses for cost of materials only last year, so they love me.” I wiggle my fingers. “Hand it over.”
He does, then watches over my shoulder as I rip into it. The whole thing is about the width and length of my hand and maybe four inches deep, and it’s not heavy. The tape holding it closed peels away, and I pull back the flaps.
“What the fuck?!” Griff bellows. I stare at the contents of the box, practicallyfeelingthe blood drain from my face. Anxiety is a crashing tidal wave that surges through me, and my hands start to shake. Black dots dance in my vision.
Griff takes the box from my lap and puts it on the coffee table. “Nobody touch that,” he orders, then drops to his knees in front of me and grips my hands. “Deep breath, Phil. Look at me. Come on, look at me and breathe.”
I drag my gaze away from the box and meet his worried eyes, and suddenly breathing is a little easier.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “You’re safe, okay? I’m going to make sure of it.”
I manage a nod. Words are out of the question right now. Honestly, just breathing feels like a challenge.
Keeping his tight grip on my hands, he turns his head and says, “Can someone—oh, thanks.”
And then Calla is slipping into the seat beside me, a tall glass of water in her hand and fury on her face. “Sip for me,” she coaxes, holding the glass to my lips.
I do, and the cool water in my mouth, slipping down my throat, gives me something to focus on. After a minute, I’m steady enough to free my hand from Griff’s and take the glass. Their relief is visible.
“Harold’s making you tea,” Calla says. “Blaise is looking up the non-emergency number for the police. When you’re ready, we can make a list of stuff you need, and you’ll stay here tonight.”
“He can stay with me,” Griff says firmly. “And don’t call the cops. Let me call Damian.”
“Your boss?” Polly shakes his head. “We need?—”
“The police, I agree,” Griff cuts in. “But I don’t want whoever’s on shift. Damian—or more to the point, Kane’s manager—will know who to call to get one of the detectives who investigate celebrity stalkers.”
But I’m not a celebrity.
“You think Phil’s connected enough to get them to take this seriously?” Butch asks. “We can call Xera’s mom. She knows a lot of influential people. Maybe she can pull some strings.”
“She’d love that,” Xera adds. “I can call her right now.”
“Polly and I can call our managers too,” Jordan adds. “I know mine has a client who was stalked last year. That was in Tennessee, but he probably has contacts in other states as well.”
Their words are big and loud, slapping into my brain, making it hard to process, but even with the tide of anxiety drowning me, their support matters.
