Thorne Princess(116)

“Excuse him. He’s…uhm, clinically insane.” Tom darted up behind me, following me out of the boardroom.

The gray hallway closed in on us. Had it always been this fucking narrow and dim? Not that I was missing Los Angeles and its traffic, pollution, and plastic people, but Chicago could be miserable sometimes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tom whisper-shouted under his breath.

I waved him off, not breaking my stride to my office. “It’s a small job, and he’s making you sweat for it. Fuck it.”

“A job is a job,” Tom insisted.

“No,” I explained with patronizing patience. “A job is a contract between two parties, based on mutual respect. I’m not kissing anyone’s ass.”

“You’ve never kissed ass.” Tom jumped before me, blocking my way to my door. We both knew I could punch him square in the face and get to my destination. But the truth was, work could wait. I’d done nothing but work for the past seven months.

“What’s eating you, Ransom?” His eyes searched mine frantically.

“Nothing.”

“You haven’t been yourself.”

“Myself is a total pain in the ass, and that’s exactly what I am right now.”

She’s twenty-one. Twenty. One. What is it about her that made her impossible to forget?

“Look…” He sighed. “You’re giving me unhinged vibes, and seeing as you’re my business partner, it makes me feel some kinda way. Come over to dinner tonight? Lisa would really like to see you. The kids miss you, too.”

Biggest load of horse shit I’d ever heard, but my social calendar was wide open. Plus, seeing Lisa and the kids might wrestle me into something resembling chivalrous. Or at least not total dipshit behavior. Gorsuch trailed out of the boardroom, shoving a bunch of papers in Tom’s chest on his way out.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he muttered.

I arched an eyebrow to Tom. “See?”

Tom shook his head, looking exhausted. “Just be at my place at six. Look presentable. Oh, and don’t drink!”

“I haven’t drunk in months.”

“Yup.” Tom retreated, walking backward to his office as he watched me. “I’m well aware, assface. You’ve been insufferable to a fault.”





One kid sat in my lap, and another on my shoulders as I tried watching a football game in Tom’s living room.

“Have they always been this heavy? This needy?” I asked as a tiny finger found its way into my nostril, its owner giggling in delight.

Lisa stared at me levelly from the recliner. “Ransom, they’re five.”

At six, I was already an expert pickpocket who stole to ensure my belly was full, and fought tooth and nail for my spot on a grubby cot. I had no idea how normal kids behaved at that age.

“Uncle Rand-son, do monthsters exist?”

“Uncle Rand-son, who is stronger, Thor or Spiderman?”

“Monsters don’t exist, unless you count politicians and lawyers. Thor is a hammer-wielding god, and Spiderman is a teenager wearing a latex suit, so you do the math. Also, tell your mommy to bring me a beer.”

“Tell your uncle to get his own,” Lisa said sunnily.

I shook the children off of me and stood up, walking to Tom and Lisa’s kitchen. Food was going to be ready in ten minutes, which meant I needed to endure the excruciating punishment of small talk until then. I didn’t feel like eating. I didn’t feel like being entertained. All I wanted to do was go home and conduct one of my weekly online searches on Hallie. Searches that were becoming more and more frustrating, seeing as she had disappeared from the face of the earth, or at least the reach of the internet. No movie premieres, no parties, no paparazzi pictures at The Ivy.

Naturally, I could get her ass tailed and find out whatever I wanted to know about her. But it was such a dick move—such an obsessive stalker vibe—I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I flung the fridge open, taking out three beers for Lisa, Tom, and me. I popped the caps with my thumb. They slam-dunked straight into the sink. Pivoting, I was about to make my way back to the living room when I found Lisa standing in front of me. She stared at me primly, her hands pinned to her waist.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.” I frowned, sidestepping her. “Mind your business.”

“It’s hard when you’re making it impossible for my husband to handle his work professionally. You’re not all in, are you?” She followed my steps, staying closely behind.

Snorting out, I said, “That’s a bit fucking extravagant, sweetheart. I clock in about three times the amount of hours your husband does.”

“You’re distracted, agitated, and you’re not bringing your A-game,” she continued, undeterred. Goddamn Lisa and her BA in psychology. “Stop. Turn around. Help me set the table,” she commanded.

I halted, glancing at the dinner table. “It’s already set.”

“Help me get the roast out of the oven, then.”

I took a swig of my beer, setting all three on the table before making my way back to the kitchen. “You’re a pain in the ass, Lisa.”

“Sure. But you can’t afford to be picky with your friends, so just roll with it.” She hopped onto the counter, watching as I served my hostess her dinner at her table.