It feelsveryconvenient.
Especially since Lucky slipped in one of our email communications and clued me in that his brothers—Decker especially—were worried I’d say something I shouldn’t to someone I shouldn’t be near while I’m here.
I should be more suspicious of Rhys, but it’s hard to not feel increasingly more in control when he has dark purple hair dye dripping down the top of his face and flour all over his nose and short beard.
His eyes are blood red and leaking tears.
I mean, they’re actually a lovely shade of blue—the irises—but the whites of his eyes are as angry as the twist of his lips.
Hopefully the dye and flour and red eyes don’t make it too hard for my security team to identify him from the picture I sent them.
I huddle closer to the short hallway that leads to the bedroom, ready to sprint. I can lock myself inside, then crawl out the window when Cyril gets here, which will likely be within the next three minutes, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.
I hope it’s not necessary.
If I wasn’t worried about blowing my cover before I’ve even gotten to meet the other two triplets, I would’ve already ordered my security agent here to handle Rhys, becausewho the fuck breaks into a secluded cabin in the middle of the night?
But what I’m here to do—to finally put my father in his rightful place after everything he’s put Daphne and me through, but especially her—is too important to blow it on the first unexpected turn of events.
“I need to rinse my eyes. Can I move without you flinging the skillet at my head?” Rhys says.
His voice is deep and raspy in ways that remind me I haven’t had sex in at least six months, but then I remind myself thatMargie Johnson, my cover identity, hasn’t had sex in two years, and that doesn’t actually help.
Also, I’m clearly on the downhill slope of the adrenaline rush if I’m thinking of sex and not just survival.
I nod to him. “Yes. Move slowly and go to the kitchen sink.”
I don’t ask if he’s been here before.
Lucky’s reaction on the phone made it clear Rhys is a known entity to him, so it’s possible Rhys knows the floor plan and can find the kitchen on his own.
Provided this really is Rhys.
I text his picture to Lucky too.Is this the guy you know?
Rhys finishes rising slowly, and did I say the man was big?
That was an understatement.
He’s six five if he’s an inch, and he could fill a doorframe and a half with how wide his shoulders are. He stretches his fingers on one hand, then balls them into a meaty fist. Thick veins trail up from his hands, disappearing beneath his leather jacket, which hangs open to reveal a tight black T-shirt, also covered with flour but clearly outlining thick pecs and a solid stomach underneath.
A wisp of fear takes hold in my gut again.
Can you blame a woman who’s used to having personal security for going overboard with the self-protective measures when that’s what was looming in the shadows?
“Who are you?” he asks while he makes his way quickly to the kitchen, one wincing bloodshot eye trained on me.
I trail him from just the right distance that I can still get to an exit path if necessary.
“I’m Margie Johnson,” I announce.
The lie is easier than it should be.
While I pride myself in overachieving the hell out of everything I do—apparently now including makeshift intruder alerts—this is the first time I’ve tried to overachieve being someone else, and it’s weird.
Rhys bends over at the kitchen sink. It’s an old porcelain single basin that fits perfectly with this mountain cabin vibe, which I’m purposely focusing on so I don’t stare at his ass.
My phone buzzes in my hand—the hand not still holding the cast-iron skillet—and I look down at a note from my head of security, who’s staying in a cabin a mile down the road.
