Page 67 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

“Damn right we do,” Rory chimes in.

Briar and Tiff just grin at me.

I roll my eyes. “So back to the book…”

They give me that, and we spend a long time talking about the story and then other things like Chrissy and Rory’s animal rescues and how they’re helping Briar organize one for former racehorses. Work is covered along with motherhood and hockey players and all their silly idiosyncrasies.

Ninety minutes later, one of Pascal’s men cautiously approaches, dropping several bags of takeout before disappearing just as quickly.

I roll my eyes.

But Thorn timed it just right.

The baked goods are decimated.

Our bellies are ready for something aside from empty carbs.

And the Italian food he ordered is delicious.

The conversation turns lazy, and we watch an episode of a trashy reality TV before Mia declares it’s bedtime.

Violet’s long since curled into my lap and is so out she doesn’t so much as bat an eye when I shift her to the cushion to walk everyone out.

Rory looks ready to fall asleep and loops her arm through Tiff’s as they move to the elevator.

Marie inspects a light fixture then hugs me and follows them.

Chrissy snaps Mia into her seat, kisses me on the cheek.

And Briar lingers, hugging me tightly and murmuring, “So happy you were brave enough to take a chance on Thorn.” She pulls back, winks. “And on yourself.”

My throat goes tight. “Thanks, honey.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” A sly grin. “But enjoy your surly, sexy billionaire in the meantime.”

I laugh softly and wave as the elevator doors shut, as the car takes them downstairs.

Suddenly the penthouse is quiet again.

Too quiet.

I stand in the living room for a moment, the city glowing beyond the windows, and wish Thorn was here.

When he doesn’t miraculously appear, I take care of the remaining dishes—thankful that the women insisted on helping me do the bulk of them (even though I tried to demur) because fatigue is creeping in and my ribs ache.

But even as I settle on the couch beside Violet, my eyes growing heavy there’s still no Thorn.

A coil of worry tightens beneath my ribs.

The doubts I’d shoved down earlier start creeping back in.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, grabbing my phone before I can overthink it.

RIVER: You okay?

The response comes quickly enough to settle my doubts.

THORN: Yes, little hen.