Page 160 of Trapped with the Billionaire

“Want me to call him for you?”

“No,” I said quickly. I was stuck in a no-win situation and had to choose the least-bad option. I nodded toward the house. “Come on inside.” I wasn’t going to make her suffer out here all night.

She opened the car door and climbed down. “Then I’d love that coffee.”

I handed it to her, and we walked up to the house. “I’m not going in to work tomorrow. How are you going to handle that?”

She followed me up the steps. “My partner, Winston, and I will split shifts.”

“Oh.” I’d met Winston one evening when he’d come by to sub for Constance. He was a nice-enough guy, it seemed—a giant bear of a man. I opened the door. “What do you know…” I wasn’t sure how to finish the question. “About the situation?”

She latched the deadbolt behind her and went to check the window. “Only that you two aren’t together right now.”

“Not now or ever again,” I corrected her.

She moved to the next window. “And that he’ll skin me alive if anything happens to you.”

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

She stopped and turned. “Nicole, I’ve seen the police and autopsy reports. I’ve talked to Detective Beal and the first cops on the scene. I don’t think this is a threat you laugh off.”

I asked again, “How much longer?”

“You have to ask Josh. Or, until Beal catches the guy.”

I slumped down into the couch again.

A text arrived.

JOSH: How were the tacos?

Constance looked over.

I didn’t say anything as I turned off my phone. I wasn’t falling into the conversation trap again.

* * *

Josh

When I got home,Serena and Duke were gone, which kept me from having to explain my failure to anyone.

The condo didn’t feel right, since I knew Nicole wouldn’t be arriving with her dog.

The liquor cabinet called to me. I surveyed the contents, and none of it looked appropriate. If I was going to get Nicole back, I had to start again the way we had in the islands—not the falling in the pool part, but the drink that had started it all, a green monkey.

Looking the name up on the internet netted me a host of different recipes, all of which were completely different. Some even used vodka, and I knew it had been a rum drink.

It took a few minutes to get connected, but I finally convinced them to get Diego on the line in Barbados. He remembered me—one perk of being a good tipper—and five minutes later I had the recipe they used at the bar there.

I assured him I’d send another tip his way soon and had him transfer my call to the front desk.

The clerk on duty thought it was an unusual request, but he took my credit card number and assured me the hundred dollars would make its way to Diego.

Forty-five minutes later, I was back from the store with the ingredient I hadn’t had: passionfruit juice.

I made up a tall glass with the directions Diego had relayed and sat by the window, where I could look out in the direction of Nicole’s house. A brain freeze was the awful result of sucking down the frozen concoction too rapidly.

I jumped up and drank a little lukewarm water out of the tap to relieve the pain. I was such a dork. Lesson learned: don’t rush this. Going back to the window, I sat, closed my eyes, and with a small sip of the drink, transported myself back to where it had all started. That night, and the following day and night, played back in my mind and brought an overwhelming warmth with them.

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