Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Quinn, I’m sorry,” Carter said breathlessly when they finally broke apart, “but we have to go. Riggs and I will be back after we… ah… you know.”
“Actually get engaged?” I ventured.
Riggs’s gaze swung to me. “You knew?”
“Not until I overheard you two talking. Your voices carry like you would not believe.” I waved a hand toward the back room, where I’d been listening. “So I’ll put the tattoo ceremony on hiatus, then? Just as well. I might be in jail for murder once I find your boss.”
“Champ wasn’t trying to bait and switch you,” Riggs said quickly. “I think in his own fucked-up way, he was trying to move things along between Carter and me. Champ genuinely wanted me to propose and for you to plan the wedding. And we really will keep you in mind to do that just as soon as we’re ready, right, Carter?”
“Hell, no!” Carter winked at me. “Quinn, I like you. And the next time I—or my grandfather—need a party planned, I will absolutely call you. But the next time this guy proposes?” He patted Riggs’s chest a little more firmly than necessary. “He’d better have a minister in tow, or a capybara neck tattoo will be the least of his worries.”
Riggs squeezed Carter against him. “Baby, have I ever told you how hot you are when you threaten me with bodily harm?”
Carter snickered, but the second their gazes met, the air thickened with tension, and they began eye-fucking each other right there in the showroom.
“I think maybe you look a little flushed, Doctor,” Riggs suggested. “Maybe you need to cancel your patients for the day and get someone to take your temperature.”
Carter turned beet red and hurried Riggs out the door, but it looked like he was very much on board with that plan.
I couldn’t help but think of Champ and wish… well, I didn’t know exactly what I wished where he was concerned. But after I kicked his ass for lying to me about Carter and Riggs, I was pretty sure I was done with the revirgination thing. It clearly wasn’t working. It might even be making things worse.
“How about we cut off early and go read your owner the riot act, hmm?” I suggested. Herc yapped in agreement.
But before I could lock the showroom door, it opened for the billionth time that morning and a stranger walked in.
“Good morning! Mr. Taffet?” The man’s smile was disarmingly polite, and his suit was Tom Ford, if I wasn’t mistaken.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
He pulled out a badge, and his whole demeanor suddenly seemed a little more menacing. “Agent Vincent Parler, DEA. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Champ’s ex-boyfriend. Shit. Be cool, Quinn.
But I couldn’t.
Was there a word for people who became incredibly anxious around men with badges? Because whatever that disease was, I had it. My palms went sweat-slick instantly, and I was suddenly, irrationally sure that I’d not only killed someone that morning and forgotten about it, but I probably also still had the gun on my person.
“I want you to know, I’ve paid my taxes appropriately,” I babbled. “And that light herbal refreshment I partook in that one time in college? I haven’t done that since freshman year.”
He frowned at me, and I caved.
“Okay, maybe a couple of times since!” I admitted frantically. “But I haven’t rolled the devil’s lettuce for years, I promise. And those speed limit signs weren’t well marked! I’d like an attorney.”
“Mr. Taffet,” the man said impatiently, dropping his friendly mien, “I’m here to ask you about your relationship with Thomas Drakes.”
“Thomas Drakes?” Damn. Champ’s repeating thing was contagious.
“A little over two weeks ago, you were seen leaving Mr. Drakes’s Nashville home. You were also recently spotted at his farm in Licking Thicket. And we have bank records showing large sums of money transferred from his personal account to yours.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t know him?”
“No, of course I know him. I’m planning his wedding. I mean, not Tommy’s wedding.” I tittered nervously. “His daughter, Marissa, is my bride. I mean, not my bride, but a bride. Whose wedding I’m planning.”
Oh, God, this was terrible. Debilitating.
“Your story is that Drakes is your client?” He looked around my shop, his eyes resting on the floral arrangements and the collection of bridal veils hanging by the dressmaker’s dais.
“Well… yes. Because he is. The money was for vendor deposits. I can show you receipts, if you’d like. I don’t think Mr. Drakes would mind.”
There. That was easy enough. Just stick to the truth, Quinn.
“And what about your relationship with Percival Champion?” Vince asked, switching tacks.
“Champ? Uh. He and I…” My whole body broke out in a fresh round of sweat, because when it came to Champ, I couldn’t stick to the truth. I wasn’t sure what the truth was anymore.