Page 33 of Hooked on Trouble

Instead of replying that I’m a jumbled mess, I open one of the catalogs and flip through it. Looping calligraphy, printed stationery, and colored envelopes fill each page. “These are great. Lots of options for our future customers.”

“Right?” Shay flips through another one. “We’ll figure out pricing, but there are tons in here.”

Lily stills my busy hand. “Seriously, Rave. How are you?”

Noxious. Terrified. I might have to face my sister and my betrayal. There’s also a chance I might find forgiveness. Find someone to order Chinese takeout with for Thanksgiving, because neither of us knows how to cook a turkey. Someone to remind me I was a shy kid who chased snakes and actually wore dresses.

I run my fingers over a cream invitation. The dainty ribbon enclosing the page is so sheer it looks ready to snap. “How many hours without sleep are considered dangerous?”

“It’s that bad?” Shay asks.

“I’ve been waiting to find Rose for seventeen years. There’s major buildup with that, and it could be a disaster.”

“Or it could be great,” Lily says. “Whatever happens, you still have us.”

She’s right. I know she is. But she’s always had family. Her birthday doesn’t pass unnoticed by her kin. Hallmark displays of Mother’s Day cards or “Sisterly Love” don’t make her want to spend the day at a gun range. I yawn into my elbow, my sleeplessness catching up to me. “I know I have you, I just might not have my sanity.”

“Because Nico might literally fuck your brains out?” Shay wiggles her eyebrows.

We all burst out laughing, even Lily tossing her head back with a hearty giggle. Man, do I love these girls. “The guy is dead sexy,” I say.

“No argument there.” Shay fixes her bra strap, the red lace a match to the ruby lips printed on her tank top. “Seriously, though, you’re still good with your decision? To take things further with him?”

“I’m still nervous, but there’s no use fighting it. He’s been nothing but good to me since the Aspen fiasco, and the attraction is too intense. Time will tell if it’s the right move.”

At the slums, our bodies touched so many times I may as well have smoked a joint. The way his thighs bracketed my ass while he looked at my photos, how his hands curled around my hips—every point of contact snapped through my bloodstream, leaving me a hazy mess. When he lowered his lips to my ear and said photography was my calling, my body melted into his.

Then, that kiss.

A girl could get used to that sense of connection, that swoopy feeling in her stomach. Very, very used to that. And sleeping in his arms might calm the anxiety keeping me awake at night. After he fucks my brains out.

We flip through the books, pointing out our favorite invitations. Mine has a large black raven swooping across the page (obviously). Lily’s choice has branches of coral layered over handmade paper. Remembering my to-do list for our business, I grab a stack of menus from my room and fan them over the books.

“I checked out five catering companies and chatted with the owners about what we’re doing. I think we should narrow it down to three. They all said we could crash a party to see them in action—taste their food and check out the presentation. I can get on that when I’m back. Just let me know if you want to come.”

Shay scrunches her face. “Is that a real question? Free fancy food? Sign me up.”

Lily stops chewing her cuticles long enough to say, “I’m in.”

Pounding sounds from my door then, one glance at my clock telling me my Sexy Beast is on time. Thanks to the girls, my nerves are less overwrought, but when I open the door, I nearly dissolve, my insides turning to goo at the sight of Nico.

Must be the sleep deprivation.

He smolders at me. “Hey.”

Definitely some form of deprivation. “Hey, yourself.”

He’s in his non-police uniform: tight black T-shirt—the stitching across his biceps holding on for dear life—dark jeans, black boots, and sunglasses covering those eyes. Come to think of it, this could be his on-duty wardrobe. Everything about him screams COP.

I stare at my reflection in his glasses. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

He looks down at his (I’d love to lick whipped cream off of it) chest and back at me. “Yeah.”

Nico excels at single syllables.

I huff out a breath, realizing neither of us is dressed right. He looks like a narc, and I could pass for a punk rocker with my black ensemble. The Rose I remember wore bell bottoms and flowered tops and tied ribbons in her hair. If we show up at a hippie commune looking like this, no one will talk to us.

“Hi, Nico,” Lily calls from behind me, both girls weighted down with their books.