The Price Of Scandal(100)

For the first time in hours, the desire to smile was overwhelming.

I’d made the right choice.

He gave another soft snore, and I could smell the alcohol fumes as they wafted toward me.

If this was happening, I needed the man awake. And sober.

I pulled a cashmere throw off an armchair and draped it over him. That’s when I noticed the shirt tucked under his arm. It was mine. One I’d left here. Any ice left in the cracks of my heart liquefied.

“Damn you, Price,” I whispered.

In the kitchen, I fired up his espresso maker. While I waited for the magic of caffeine, I shamelessly snooped through the open files on the counter.

The complete and official Emily Stanton dossier sat, thick and tempting. But it was a red folder open under another empty beer bottle that caught my eye. I moved the bottle and spun the file around.

Lita.

Of course he’d known. Judging from the research, he’d been suspicious from the beginning.

I’d missed it. I’d been blind to her envy, her insidious undermining. She’d never been a friend. And Derek had seen it immediately.

He’d tried to tell me, I remembered. “Why do you trust Lita?” And I’d shut him down.

I paged through the file. He’d had his boxing friend Jude follow her. Noted suspicious contact with La Sophia. Dammit. There were notes from his lunches with her.

She attempted seduction under the guise of innocent flirtation. Leaning in. Whispering. Stroking my arm. Even went for the damsel in distress routine. Bottom Line: She wants everything that is E’s. That includes me. Hope E gets the opportunity to kick her in the face. Must find way to tell E before L attacks.





I’d seen enough about Lita’s betrayal and opened the next folder.

I wasn’t prepared for what I found, however.

It seemed that Derek’s digging had been more thorough than my own. I sucked in a shaky breath. I wasn’t sure what was worse: the betrayal or the fact that I wasn’t surprised.

There were more notes here.

I want to personally take care of this one. Or watch Jane use her stun gun. Derek had pushed so hard with the pen the words were carved into the paper.

The smell of fresh espresso permeated my fog of self-pity. I had work to do, and I needed the unconscious man cuddling with my gym shirt to make it happen.

On cue, he groaned.

It was the raspy, gravelly noise of the defeated and dehydrated. I knew it well.

I picked up the cup of espresso and my bag and carried them both into the living room.

“Emily?” he murmured into my t-shirt. I set the cup down with a clink on the coffee table. One of his eyes cracked open. I reached over him and turned on the lamp.

“Wake up, Price.”

“You’re here.” He sat upright, swinging his legs off the couch. His feet swept three bottles to their death.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he groaned, cradling his head in his hands.

“You’re a mess,” I sighed, carting an armload of empties from living room to kitchen.

“Don’t go,” he said.

He was on his feet, swaying.

“Sit down and drink your coffee,” I insisted.

“I think this is a dream,” he muttered to himself.

“Price, sit down. Drink your damn coffee. And sober up because we have work to do.”

He squinted at me from across the room. “You’re bossy like the real Emily.”

The man was beyond frustrating. And, okay, adorable. Also so gorgeous it hurt to look at him.

His pants were untied, hanging off his hips and showing off that cut torso to its best advantage. His silky hair stood up in tufts, and the dark stubble on his jaw gave him a bad boy vibe. My mother insisted that men who didn’t shave were unseemly. The woman didn’t know what she was missing out on.

I ditched the glass in his recycling bin and returned to the living room. I stopped at the end of the couch, not trusting myself to get closer. We had business to attend to, and he was a little too vulnerable and appealing like this.

“Sit,” I said again.

He pinched himself on the flat of his stomach. “Ow.”

“What are you doing?” I pushed him back on the couch. He landed gracelessly and dropped his head back against the cushion. I sat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping a safe distance between the two of us.

“I’m seeing if you’re real.”

“Oh, I’m very real. Now drink your coffee.”

Obediently, he picked up the cup and sipped, still eyeing me.

We sat like that in silence for long minutes.

“Are you here for my apology or yours?” he said, finally breaking the peace.

“Mine?” I scoffed.

“Alright, let’s hear it, then.”

“Are you still drunk?”

“I may be vaguely drunk and very, very hungover, but I still know that we both owe the other an apology.”

And this was why I loved the man.

“Why did you decide to get shit-faced last night?” I asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“Why?” His voice boomed through the space. “My girlfriend was under attack, and she didn’t trust me enough to let me in!”

“I mean, did you get drunk because you lost me or the game?”