She pauses for a long moment for dramatic effect, then takes a deep breath.
“None other than the rich, powerful, and hotter-than-sin, Vincent Fletcher.”
Cal blinks. “You met Vincent?”
Tina nods.
“Where? How?” I ask.
She leans back in her chair with a proud smirk. “Turns out, the man has a severe peanut allergy. He was having a dinner meeting with one of his partners, and the dish they served him had traces of peanuts in the sauce.”
“Is he okay?” Cal asks, concern threading his voice.
Tina waves a hand. “He is now. I basically saved his life.”
I narrow my eyes, skeptical. “In other words, you administered epinephrine?”
She sits up straighter, clearly enjoying the drama of it all. “He came into the ER wheezing, lips swelling, face red—I mean, the man looked like he got into alosing match with a hornet’s nest. He was clutching his throat, gasping for air. So yes, I grabbed an EpiPen off the crash cart like a boss and jabbed him. Then I stayed with him until he was stable.”
Cal chuckles. “Sounds like he owes you.”
“Oh, he said exactly that,” Tina says, brushing imaginary lint from her shoulder. “And then he called me a ‘calm, commanding presence.’ I mean, he's not wrong.”
She glances between us, eyes gleaming. “If this man wasn’t Meghan’s father, I might’ve climbed right into that hospital bed with him.”
“Tina!” I laugh.
She shrugs. “Just saying. Near-death experiences bring people closer.”
Cal shakes his head, smiling. “I wouldn’t recommend you do that.”
“Do what?” Tina asks, as if challenging Cal’s warning.
“Get close to Vincent Fletcher.”
“It might be too late, darling,” Tina says, a smile crossing her lips. “He asked for my phone number.”
“The man must be at least twice your age!" I exclaim.
“He's not old," Tina says. "The man is mature. Like an excellent bottle of wine—aged to perfection, full-bodied, and worth savoring slowly.”
Chapter 24
Cal
"Meghan," I say, trying to summon the last bit of patience I still have. "You promised Hannah you'd take her Christmas shopping. You've canceled on her twice already."
"Relax," she says, clearly unfazed. "Christmas is still a couple of weeks away. I can’t make it today, but how about I pick her up tomorrow and take her for the day?"
"That's what you said last week," I remind her. "What in the world could be more important than spending time with your daughter? She's five, for Pete's sake. She needs her mom."
"Look, if tomorrow doesn't work for you," she says, with a calm that does nothing but infuriate me, "we can just forget about it."
"No, no, no," I counter, trying not to lose my temper. "You're not getting out of this."
"I'll pick her up tomorrow, then."
Click.
