Page 29 of Jesse

I’m an idiot. For so many reasons.

One, kidnapping is illegal and comes with prison time if you get caught. What the fuck was I thinking? This is the dumbest plan ever. How could four super-smart, super-capable, super-logical fucking women ever think that this was a good idea?

And two, he is nothing like I expected. Like not even a little bit. Not one teeny, tiny fucking morsel of that asshat he used to be is present and accounted for tonight.

And that story.

Jesus Christ. He comes from a mob family? Or something? I don’t know. I’m not really sure. And his father and uncle were murdered and his mother just… like… fucking disappeared after he was born. Just what the hell was I thinking?

We’re going to be killed for this. Fuck prison time. Johnny Boston is gonna show up at Bright Berry Beach next week with a shotgun and blow our heads off!

“Emma?” Jesse asks.

“Hmm?”

“Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Yup,” I say, smiling. Then take a sip of my champagne. Then down the whole thing and grab the bottle because I need another one.

“Was that bad news in the text?”

Bad news? Only if a message stating that my best friends and partners in crime are on their way across the lake in a boat to make moving his body easier is bad news.

“Nope,” I say, forgetting about the drink. I probably do not need another drink. “All news is good news. But can I say… or ask you… will that butler be here all night?” I crinkle my nose at him.

Jesse looks over his shoulder at the butler, who is standing sentry at the edge of the outdoor living room.

“Stan should take the night off, don’t you think? I mean, we’re fine, right?” And, I don’t add, I need him to be gone by the time my crazy kidnapping partners pull up in a boat in ten minutes.

“Oh,” Jesse says, leaning forward in his chair a little. “Sure. Yeah. I don’t know him either. No big. I’m sure Stan would appreciate a night off, wouldn’t you, Stan?”

“Whatever you wish, Mr. Boston. The food is ready. I can serve it before I leave.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “Totally unnecessary.” Jesse is squinting his eyes at me now. He has to know I’m acting weird. “We did just eat,” I say.

“Just ice cream,” he says. “You’re not hungry?”

“Are you?” And I have this feeling. I just know he’s going to say, Starved. So I waggle my eyebrows at him. And this time there is no way to mistake that this waggle is pure innuendo.

“Oh.” He smiles, then chuckles. “Oh. OK. Hey, Stan. Do a guy a favor and beat it, will ya?”

“If you wish, Mr. Boston.”

“I do wish.” Then he leans across the table and takes my hand in his. “Ms. Dumas and I would like to be alone.”

And even though I know this whole night, from top to bottom—with the exception of the ice cream—is wrong on every level possible and I should not lead him on or let him hold my hand, I do lead him on and I do let him hold my hand.

My heart actually thumps in my chest. Three times. Real hard. And my head goes a little bit swoony.

Because I’m falling for him. I’m falling for Jesse Boston all over again. Like I’m eighteen years old. Like I’m still that same innocent, naive, gullible girl who fell for him thirteen years ago.

“Hey,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

“Hey,” I say, a chill running up my spine as my hand slides inside my dress pocket and plays with the two roofies. We weren’t sure how many to use, so we decided on two. But now I’m pretty sure zero is the correct answer.

Yup. Zero roofies is definitely the way to go.

My phone buzzes again.