I groan inwardly. Maybe she won’t remember that little bit of information come morning.
The text comes through and I press the number Nina provided.
Imogen doesn’t answer the first time I call, so I immediately call again.
“Since when do spammers double-call?” she says by way of greeting.
“Imogen? Mo?”
“Who is this?”
“Max Cruz.”
She makes an appreciative sound in her throat. “If you’re calling to ask for my permission to marry—”
“Imogen!” Sutton snaps, the word followed by a hiccup.
“Slutty? Where are you? What’s wrong?”
Slutty?And I thought my nickname was bad.
Sutton opens her mouth to answer, then hiccups again and plops back against the seat with a frustrated little huff.
“She’s fine,” I say, though I guess that’s not entirely true, is it?
“Did you guys finally go out on a date?”
Finally?My lips quirk up into a smile, but I quickly mask it by rubbing my hand over my jaw. “We ran into each other at the Bruins game. Sutton had a few IPAs—”
“Five,” the woman in question says matter-of-factly.
My eyes widen as Imogen screeches, “Five?”
Sutton frowns, eyes closed. “Maybe six.”
“She won’t tell me where she lives,” I continue. “Do you mind texting me her address?”
Imogen snorts. “Yeah, right, like I’m going to send my drunk best friend home with some guy I don’t even know. I’ll text you mine.”
Shaking my head, I run a hand over my jaw. “I wasn’t planning on going inside—”
“Can she walk?”
I look over at the brunette curled up in my passenger seat and chuckle. “About as well as a newborn gazelle, I imagine.”
“Okay, then I guess I’ll meet you at the curb and you can help me get her inside. And thenyou can leave,” she says pointedly. She hangs up before I can respond, and a split second later, her address comes through in a text and I enter the location into the Alpina’s navigation system.
Sutton is snoring softly again before I even exit the stadium parking lot.
Chapter Twenty
Max
I slam my suitcase shut with a grunt, finally ready for a trip I don’t feel like taking. I leave first thing tomorrow morning for a quick two-night stay in Chicago, and though I could pass it off onto one of my agents, the way I’ve been dropping the ball lately at Apex means I need to handle signing this kid myself. It took me weeks to secure this meeting with a pitcher who’s about to go major league with the Sox, and passing him off to someone else would reflect poorly on not just me, but my agency.
But I’m so distracted that I nearly packed twoleftloafers. Thank God for stylists—as soon as I got Nina on the phone, she sent someone over who laid out everything I’d need for the weekend, from a suit for the dinner meeting tomorrow night to golf attire for Sunday morning.
I’m all set, but I feel far from prepared.
