She sighed. “I’ll do my best, OK? I’ll invite her for Memorial Day weekend or something. But I’m not going back there. I can’t anyway. I used all my personal days on Mattie. I’ve got literally zero left.”
“I get it,” he said. “I’ll see you, then.”
“See you. Oh—happy birthday.”
He hung up, contemplated calling his sister Vanessa, checked the time, and decided to try her tomorrow. She was a United flight attendant, based out of Miami, and it was … nearly eleven o’clock in Miami. He hadn’t seen her in almost five years, but she’d sent Annabelle dolls from all over the world when she was little. She might let her sister stay in her apartment over the summer. Worth a shot, and their dad had always liked Vanessa best. She’d been bright and breezy, a pretty party girl who’d known how to tease him and make him smile. And she’d have settled down by now, surely. Things changed when you got within shouting distance of thirty. He, for example, felt about a thousand years old.
He had a couple of choices here. He could sit and marinate in thoughts of how he could have done a better job of holding his siblings together after their mom had left, instead of gratefully settling for the brotherhood of a football team, or …
Or he could answer the knock on the door, eat his room-service dinner, text Annabelle back, and tell her he’d think of something else.
He was just taking his first bite of chicken enchiladas when the phone rang again. Not his cell phone. The room phone. He chewed, swallowed, let it ring two more times, and picked up.
It had better not be Owen.
It pretty much had to be Owen. Saying … what? Asking him to make some excuse to Jennifer about why Dyma wasn’t coming home tonight? That wasn’t just going to be a no. It was going to be a hell, no.
Also, how did a guy become the Protector of Women when he was so bad at it? Free and easy, that had always been him. It was going to keep being him. As soon as he got Annabelle squared away.
And Dyma. Which was just for one more day.
“Mr. Kristiansen?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Diane at the front desk. I have Ms. Cardello on the phone for you. Would you like me to put her through?”
Just like that, there went his stupid heart again.
Oh, wait. That could be Dyma, too. It probably was Dyma. What, now he couldn’t trust Owen?
“Mr. Kristiansen?” the voice said again.
“Yeah,” he said. “Please. Connect her.”
A click, then, “You’re connected.”
“Harlan?”
He swung his feet off the bed and stood up, because there was way too much strain in that voice.
“Jennifer?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
A breathy attempt at a laugh. “You can’t believe how hard it was to get them to put me through, even after I reminded them that I’m in your party. I practically had to cry. I was going to tell them that I was your assistant, but your assistant would have your cell phone number. And your room number, too, because an assistant would have booked it. I told you I should’ve done it. Also, I’m extremely embarrassed here. I’m just going to say—this isn’t some weird ex-hookup calling you and telling you that she’s … I don’t know. What do ex-hookups call you and say, when they’re trying to be re-hookups? That they’re pregnant? That they’re suicidal?”
He was smiling. Why was he smiling? “I can’t remember,” he said. “And you aren’t a hookup, ex or otherwise, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Because I didn’t sleep with you. That probably makes me unique.” She was sounding more cheerful.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “I wouldn’t like you any less if I’d had sex with you.”
“You say that now. How about if I was lousy at it?”
He sat back down on the bed, stretched out his legs, grabbed his plate, and said, “You know what? I’m about a hundred percent certain you wouldn’t be. Did you get your dinner yet?”
“I’m about to order,” she said. “Or I was.” Then she hesitated. Which was encouraging.
“Want me to come over and eat with you?” he suggested. “Or, hey, even better. Bring it over here. The décor isn’t Moroccan, but it’s not bad.” Also, there was no Dyma here. Dyma could stay in the suite alone, because of course he could trust Owen.
“I can’t,” she said, “because I sort of … sliced my foot. Sorry, but I’ve made a mess. I’m pretty sure they’re going to charge your credit card.”
25
General Carnage
He got to her room fast.
When he knocked, she called, “Coming!” Then he heard a lot of muttering. He got, “Oh, shoot,” from the other side of the door, then, “Darn it,” and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d heard either of those expressions from a pretty woman.
Then she opened the door, and … well, yeah. There was blood.
Blood on the carpet. Blood seeping through the once-white towel she’d wrapped around her foot. Blood on her hands. Lots of blood.
She said, “Sorry,” and laughed, sounding a little giddy. “This is some kind of record,” she told him. “I mean, there’s awkward, and then there’s this scenario. I’d have called Dyma, but … well, that’s the problem with being the mom. I’d have to tell her what to do, and I’m not sure what to do, other than call the front desk for some Band-Aids, and even then …”
He wasn’t listening. He’d hoisted her into his arms, was carrying her over to the couch and putting her down. “Lie down,” he said. “You need to be on your back.”
“That’s surprisingly sexy, under the circumstances,” she said. “Who knew you were so kinky?” But that towel was even redder now, and she was grabbing for it like she thought she could keep the blood contained. “And I can’t lie down here. I’d bleed all over the couch. Can you get me another towel, please? I was trying to just bleed in the bathroom, where it’s tiled. Why’d you have to get such a fancy room? The phone was way too far away. If we’d done that motel in Wyoming like Owen said, this would be a much cheaper date. Especially since they’d have plastic glasses.”
“Would you shut up,” he said, “and lie down? This isn’t a joke.”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “It kind of is. It’s not a disaster. It’s just really, really stupid. And I’m going to bleed on you, if you sit there.” But when he didn’t move, just stared at her, she sighed and lay down.
He put her legs in his lap and started unwrapping the towel, and she said, “Don’t put that on the floor! You need to get a clean towel from the bathroom and put it on the coffee table first, then put the bloody one on top. Good thing they give you so many, because paying for these towels is going to be a whole lot cheaper than paying to clean this couch.”
He didn’t pay attention to that, either. He took a look, then pressed a single layer of toweling against the arch of her foot, and the heel, too, because she’d cut both places. Deeply. He pressed hard, and she jumped and called out.