Page 31 of Snap Shot

“You’re such a bitch!” She shoves me through a laugh, toppling me around the corner of the island to the floor. “IknewI shouldn't have told you he said no!”

My stomach aches, I wheeze so hard. “I can't—think of a better way—to convince him —bahahahaha!”

Gabe pokes me in the belly with her foot and continues to glare.

Feeling dizzy from cackling and that last glass of wine, I stay in place, sprawled on the hardwood as my chittering peters out.

“Alright, drunky.” Gabe hoists me up with an outstretched arm. “Let's get you to bed.”

We sway to the bedroom with my arm draped across her shoulder for support. “You're a good friend.” I pat her cheek once before cupping her face with my free hand until it puckers. “I love you to pieces.”

We collapse onto the mattress with afwoompand tuck our legs under the covers. Gabe nuzzles into the extra pillow. “You can show me how much by being the big spoon.”

“No way. Keep those paws to yourself, Grabby.”

Only a few minutes pass before we knock out. And I've managed to avoid discussing Radek.

—————

Luck falls short at work the next morning. Bea's still out, my head's splitting and snooty Geneviéve is about as helpful as a cabbage. Landon and Cooke are still on the lam, it seems. Theresa's on vacation for the rest of the week, though, so my stress-shits have dissipated.

Each thud into the desktop makes my headache worse. How the hell am I supposed to apologize now? I fire up the iMac, welcoming three chocolate-covered espresso beans into my mouth before clicking open a browser. In one tab, I open the client's file. In another, I type into the search bar and write notes in the margin, and taking breaks from plotting to pray it works.

Radek's residential building is insane. Reflective blue glass and white steel frame the facade and towers over nearby structures. The elevator bank is decorated nicer than my whole apartment. Massive double doors of the penthouse run from floor to ceiling. Spindly bag handles dig into my clammy grip while waiting for him to respond to the bell.

Apologizing is a great idea. Exuding confidence has worked so far. He's the same as any hockey bro you've ever dealt with.No biggie. You will not melt into goop from embarrassment. You will not. You willnot. One leaf of the grand door clicks open.

“Hi—” An impervious lump forms in my throat, snuffing out the words.

Landon Radek answers the door shirtless, every smooth muscle of his torso on display. A trail of trim chest hair between those square pecs leads to a set of unreal abs. Engorged veins in his forearms shift as he smirks and takes a bite of the Twinkie in his hand, never breaking our eye contact. Cream filling oozes from the other end—and, wow, same—before he laps it up with the broad, flat surface of his tongue.

I gulp. Guess I have new material for my stupid fantasies. I want this man to turnmeinto a Twinkie.More veins streak between the defined v of his hips and downward, the thin grey sweats hanging from them not at all useful in hiding the giant bulge at his crotch. Avert your eyes!

“I—” My voice croaks. The lump loosens when Iahem.

His smirk grows.

My shoulders level as I invoke some semblance of composure, overlooking his teasing. “I've brought a peace offering.”

Chapter 11: Pretend Nothing Happened

Landon

Every beady pair of eyes in the room glues to the eight-foot-wide TV screen on the wall. Fletch's foot bounces from the floor. Wade murmurs curses. I twist a pinch of hairs on my chin back and forth between my thumb and index finger.

There's a slight movement from where Olsen has his hand tucked into his pants. His fingernailsscritch-scritchagainst his skin. “What's taking so long?”

Fletch glares and shushes while Szecze elbows Olsen. “Shut up and wait.” Derrick harrumphs. I turn up the volume.

“Ms. Blautner, do you see the inscribed initials here, L.N.? They stand for Leslie Nash, who was an early designer for Tiffany. How much did you say you paid for this?”

“My father paid five dollars sometime in the 1930s.”

“Remarkable. This well-maintained, original piece was blown in either 1914 or 1915 and we estimate its worth to be between sixty and seventy-five thousand dollars—”

Concurrent groans and grumbles resound as Fletcher jumps to his feet, then drops to one knee, pumping his fist downward in victory. “Hell yeah, motherfuckers!” He points both fingers in the air as if thanking Jesus in the sky, then crip-walks around, gathering cash from the rest of us suckers.

“Asshole.” Olsen chucks a large bill at him.

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