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“Yes, but did you come because you wanted to be the one to save me, or because you just didn’t want J.T. to do it?”
His unhappy, incomprehensible murmurs have me tempted to turn around and face him.
Force him to face me.
Like so many other instincts I’ve fought tonight, I battle that one too, and tease, “Besides, I don’t have your number.” We arrive at my door. “I have his.”
“You should have them both.”
The overbearing declaration has me peeking slightly over my left shoulder to flirt. “I really only want the one…”
Hungry grumbles leaving him shift my face back around; however, further movements are ceased due to Wes’s gloved hands slamming on the edges of my doorframe. His large frame sways closer and closer and closer until the scents of his cologne are blissfully suffocating, stopping me from breathing anything in that isn’t him.
“Tell me it’s mine you want.”
“Tell me it’s me you want.” Hearing his hitched breath inspires a small victorious smirk to slide into place at the same time I twist my doorknob. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.” I step foot inside. “Have a good night, Mr. Wilcox…”
“You too, Bryn.”
Closing the door without looking behind me swiftly leads to me spotting a surprising sight.
The designer four-piece luggage set on display next to a brand-new mini fridge with a basket of snacks on top is enough a combination to convince me he’s doing his best to win me over, but the bedside vase of fresh roses displayed next to our earlier wordsearch booklet are what push the thought over the top.
Intrigue propels me to cross the space faster, and upon my arrival, I notice a note sticking out like a bookmark.
I quickly flip open to the page where only one word has been circled and beam brightly at the two words scribbled across the white placeholder piece of paper.
Your turn.
Chapter 10
Wes
“What the fuck do you mean you’re transferring her to the clean room?!” Bryn shouts at the top of her lungs, hands most likely falling aggressively to her ripped jeans covered hips. “How is her room not already clean enough?!”
“Isolation and sterilization,” Hamilton calmly clarifies from the outdoor bench he’s occupying.
I cut an incredulous glance over my pillar leaning shoulder that allows him to see my glare but not her. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Yes.” The lack of hesitation in his retort is unsettling. “She’s not better, Wes. She’s worse.”
“How the fuck is she worse?!” the woman in the area viciously bites.
“Her fever and rash are about the same; however, now she’s got nausea and vomiting, which means it wasn’t an allergic reaction to the flowers.” His pause is short, and his sigh even shorter. “I, myself, have also been feeling a tad off. Noticeably nauseous, but no vomiting or diarrhea, leading me away from the idea of us sharing an unfortunately timed stomach bug to a conclusion I hate that I have to make.”
Slowly, I shoot him another glare. “Which is?”
“She is most likely being poisoned.”
“What?!” Bryn screeches at an ear-splitting volume.
“That’s absurd,” is practically growled through gritted teeth.
“Upon reviewing my notes, her tests results, the duration of each individual symptom as well as the likeliness of the symptoms themselves, poison is the most plausible answer.”
“Ohmygod…” leaves Lauren’s daughter after a shaky breath.
My refusal to believe that anyone would want to hurt the single most important woman at the estate, the woman who goes to extreme lengths to make lives better, who pitches in with her own two hands anytime it’s needed whether in gardening or stocking, who willingly plays the role of therapist and mentor pushes me to snap, “What is the second most?”
