The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(7)

Gwen: Also fabulous. And Sunday is looking to be the same. I have an art class in the morning with the girls and a brunch date with David around noon.

Me: David? I take it you’ve found a new flavor of the month?

I grin over her always-busy social calendar. It’s honestly one of my favorite things about her.

She doesn’t let life lead her; she leads her life.

Gwen: He’s a pepper-gray stallion who always picks up the check. Who knows? I might even let him entertain me for two months instead of one. ;)

I shake my head on a laugh.

Gwen has never been married, and besides taking me in when I was fifteen, she’s never had any kids. But her dating life is always thriving, and it’s certainly far more entertaining than mine.

She may be in her sixties now, but the woman never has any issues finding new men to date. She just never keeps them around for long.

Me: Okay, Miss Thang. I better get back to my work party. Phone chat soon?

Gwen: Of course. Call me when you make it safely back to LA. Kisses, darling.

Before I slide my phone back into my purse, I pull up my email inbox to see if Frederick sent any of the photos he took at the Malibu beach house my way. To say I’m proud of what I created for the interior of that unspeakably gorgeous home would be the understatement of the century. Looking avidly through my inbox for the picture proof in the middle of the party so that I can avoid chitchatting with random strangers for the time being is merely a bonus.

For the last month, I’ve put my heart and soul into that space. Every single detail was meticulously chosen to create an airy, relaxed, sophisticated atmosphere that will make wealthy home buyers drool over the idea of living there.

I slide my finger down the screen to refresh my emails, but unfortunately, when five new emails populate the screen, not a single one of them is from Frederick.

Sheesh. It’s like he’s taking the weekend off or something.

Most of them are the usual spam everyone gets for giving stores their information for those stupid rewards cards that do jack shit. But one email in particular stands out like a boner in a pair of skinny jeans.

From: U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS)

Subject: Urgent Update Regarding Work Visa Lapse

My heart starts to pound furiously in my chest as I tap the screen to open the email, and a sick, cloying feeling immediately takes up residence in my throat. No, no. Surely I’m misreading the subject.

I click furiously and swallow hard as I wait for the interior of the email to load on the Wynn’s sluggish public internet. My spine curls over on itself, and I lick my lips roughly. When the message finally loads, I’m not the least bit comforted by the words inside.

Daisy Diaz,

We are writing to inform you that, as of forty-five days ago, your work visa has expired, and the USCIS Los Angeles field office has not received Form I-765 for an extension.

Holy fucking shit! My work visa is expired?! It’s… No. It can’t be. There’s no way I’ve been in LA for over a year…

What month is it? I know it’s past Valentine’s because I did that whole singleton Chinese food thing while watching Jennifer Garner lose her shit on Jessica Biel’s pi?ata. And my neighbor Batshit Bob puked all over our hallway on St. Paddy’s Day, so it has to be at least late March.

Shit. No. I’m in Vegas for the Vegas thing, and that’s an April thing…meaning… Oh my God, is it April?!

Oh God, oh God, no.

You are no longer permitted to work and live in the United States. If you would like to extend your work visa, you will have to submit Form I-765. Average processing times are twelve to fourteen months.

Oh my God. Oh, holy hell.

I can’t even finish reading the rest of the email because my heart is pounding so hard in my chest it’s making my vision blurry, and simple tasks like breathing feel impossible.

You have seriously fucked up big-time, Daisy.

The room feels as if it’s closing in on me, and my breaths are harsh, pathetic little pants of distress.

My fucking work visa has expired, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one to blame.

Considering you’re supposed to send in a yearly extension application to keep it active and you’ve been in LA since February of last year, it’s safe to say you are to blame.

How in the hell could I be so stupid? Surely they sent me a notice that I ignored.

Did I mark it as a spam email? No, that’s dumb. There’s no way they sent the only notice of my visa expiring as email, right? It had to come with the rest of the snail mail. Which, of course, I have no respect for, whatsoever.

Gah. Why am I so cavalier about dumping junk mail in the garbage? I should save every goddamn piece of paper that deigns to bestow its presence in my mailbox. I should file it by date, chronologically, in a, like, supersized filing cabinet with reminder alerts on my phone to check every folder each month. I should pay attention to my freaking life’s documents and, I don’t know, get a safe-deposit box like a real adult.

Well, it doesn’t matter now, Dais. It’s too late. You just single-handedly fucked your career.

“Now, Daisy, where were we?” Duncan is back, and he’s all up in my personal space, smiling and grinning and showcasing all the emotions that I am not feeling right now.

He reaches out to slide my hair behind my ear again, and the urge to run is so fucking strong that that’s exactly what I do.