Swing (Landry Family #2)(32)

She left because she didn’t want to have to deal with the fact that she slept all night in my arms. That we were together three times from the time we got home from the restaurant until she snuck out of here sometime after six a.m. That she liked it.

If she didn’t like it, she wouldn’t have smiled in her sleep or slept right against me like a log. She wouldn’t have let me kiss her while she slept or snuck out this morning.

She’s lame. The girl does have a flaw after all.

Grinning, I spy the mail from yesterday and sort through it. A letter from Arrows’ management is included in the pile of bills and junk and I rip it open and scan the contents.

“Blah, blah blah,” I read aloud, my eyes searching for words that mean something. “We expect . . . blah, blah, blah . . . a final assessment on Tuesday, November 25th. We will meet with you about your contract after the Thanksgiving holiday.”

I test my shoulder, rolling it around and around. It feels better, stronger, but not strong enough to fire one from two hundred feet out. Not strong enough to ward off this sick feeling in my stomach.

“Damn it,” I say, mentally rolling through therapy dates and schedules. How much harder can I press it? Can I speed this up in any way? What if this doesn’t work? What if—

The buzzing of my phone interrupts my errant thoughts, and I scamper into the bedroom and pick it up hastily to see it’s Graham.

“Just the man I was wanting to talk to,” I say, heading back into the kitchen.

“Why does that concern me?”

“Because you’re smart, G. Super fucking smart.”

“Well, let me go first,” he sighs. “Ford called this morning. He’ll be officially out in a few weeks and home for good. He wants to put together a new branch of Landry Holdings. Details haven’t been hammered out yet, but it would basically involve security for individuals, companies, things like that.”

“Sounds smart,” I chime in, detouring into the living room. Picking up a baseball from a chair next to a bookcase, I toss it in the air. “Why do I need to know this?”

“Since we are all shareholders of Landry Holdings, we all get a vote whether to branch off. It’s a potential risk and, on the other hand, a potential reward, for all of us.”

Considering this for a half a second, I toss the ball back in the air. “I have no problems with it. Ford knows what he’s doing. I say let him have at it. He’s probably taken the least out of our inheritance out of us all. What does everyone else say?”

“Barrett’s in. I’m in. If you’re in, that’s majority. But I really don’t see Camilla against it, even though she’s acting a little odd these days.”

My interest is piqued. Nothing ever happens with Camilla. She’s as boring as a loaf of plain white bread. It’s not a bad thing—her predictability is something I count on. But if something is up with Miss Perfect, this I must hear.

“Sienna will be in,” I volunteer, speaking for the sister that could’ve been my twin spirit-wise. “But tell me more about Camilla. What’s going on?”

Graham blows out a hefty breath, his office chair squeaking in the background. “I’m really not sure. You know how she’s always around? Always available? Always completely put together like Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that stopped a couple of weeks ago. She’s not around as much, doesn’t return calls. I’ve left her one message about the security company and another about an event Mom is planning that I need her input on and nada. No call back, no quick text. Nothing.”

“She’s all right, right? I mean, you’ve seen her lately? She’s not kidnapped or some shit?”

My brother laughs. “She was at dinner on Sunday. She’s around. But, get this—our little sister was in sneakers.”

“Camilla?” I ask, my face contorting in confusion as I try to picture her slumming it. “Are you sure it wasn’t Sienna?” I laugh.

“It’s weird as shit,” Graham remarks. “But she’s a big girl. Maybe she’s decided she doesn’t want to be someone’s trophy wife after all.”

“Maybe,” I say, getting impatient. “My turn. This is actually a two-parter.”

“Great.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“Trust me, I’m reeling it in as hard as I can.”

“Asshole,” I mutter. “First thing is I got a letter from management. I go in for my final test on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. After that, we renegotiate.”

“All right . . .”

“All right . . . Can you please make me feel better about this?”

His laugh booms through the receiver. “You want me to coddle you? Sorry, Linc. I draw the line at giving you the warm and fuzzies.”

“I don’t want the warm and fuzzies,” I huff. “Just tell me pragmatically how this is going to end well.”

I roll my eyes at his sigh, feeling like a needy asshole. Finally, after a long enough pause that I really start to consider he might’ve hung up on me, he speaks.

“How’s therapy been going? How do you feel?” he asks.

“Good.”

“This is going to be fine. You’re an athlete so you know injuries happen. Management knows that too. Just keep rehabbing it and see what happens.”