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“Our guest,” an uncomfortable tug at his collar is delivered, “is not a fan of you.”
It’s impossible to keep my misguided disappointment at bay. “So, I’ve gathered.”
However, in my defense, she’s not the only one.
I’m typically not a fan of myself either.
“She finds your hospitality…to be…hostile.”
“Is there a better way to phrase being kidnapped by the Men in Black?” Her face is briefly thrown over her shoulder to the security team. “Offense meant.”
“She finds the visual home security measures to be…excessive.”
“What the fuck else would you call living like we’re on the set of The Real Housewives of Highland?”
“And she finds your lack of communication regarding her mother’s health prior to this moment to be unacceptable.”
“And she also finds the fact that you two are discussing her like she’s not fucking standing right here to be quite irritating.”
This time I lean back and give my scarred jaw a hard scrub.
Of course, she hates me.
Why wouldn’t she?
Why would I deserve anything less?
Considering I’m solely responsible for the biggest tragedies in her life, I think hatred is almost too generous.
“Would you like me to escort her to the guesthouse first or take her straight to her mother?”
“Do you have to ask him before you wipe your own ass too?”
J.T.’s teeth suck of frustration threatens to pull a second round of laughter out of me.
What can I say?
It’s rare I cross paths with someone who lacks a filter.
Ever since I took over the company, just about everyone I’ve met has had the most scripted composure. Well-timed smiles to impress or sway me. Polished and rehearsed speeches to entice or intimidate me. Ulterior motives that control their every action down to the way they pick a posture during a conversation.
Bryn doesn’t appear to possess a bone like that in her body.
And it’s refreshing.
And intoxicating.
And something I have no business wanting to keep so fucking close to me.
“Wes?” he cautiously calls, redirecting my thoughts to where they belong.
“Lauren’s currently isolated and resting,” I firmly announce. “She is not to be disturbed at this time. Hamilton was concerned with another drop in vitals, so he’s preparing her to be moved into the clean room.”
Brynley’s headshake is undeniably filled with outrage. “What’s next, Mr. Wilcox? The morgue?”
“I-”
“You will show me to room, and then you will put me in direct contact with the doctor or I will personally escort you to Davy Jones’ Locker.” The eyebrow cocked afterwards causes him to noticeably gulp. “Understood, Puppet Boy?”
