Page 77 of So Close

“Well, shoot!” Aria said. “We were going to come back at Christmas and next summer. We were going to make it our place!”

A glum mood settled over the six of them, and they gazed down at the board. Auburn could still feel Deja’s gaze on her. “I’m so sorry, baby,” the older woman said.

“It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not. We led you wrong.”

Auburn brushed it off with firm sweep of her hand. “It was a rock and a hard place from the beginning. You tried to squeeze me through a tunnel that turned out to narrow to a crevice.”

“You ever think about writing books?”

Auburn grinned and shook her head.

“You got a gift for a turn of phrase.”

“Not like you.”

“It’s not just Beachcrest that’s got you down, is it? It’shim.”

Auburn sighed. “He had a heart of gold, but it’s buried too deep underground.”

Deja smiled at that. “Common problem with hot billionaires,” she said dryly. “Only way to fix them is to keep digging, even if you need to use a pickax. Literally.”

“I don’t think you mean literally,” Lindsey whispered.

“Oh, I do,” Deja murmured back.

Auburn couldn’t help a small smile. “Yeah, well. I don’t want to keep digging. I don’t want to be with a guy like that.”

“You could tell him not to talk and to just give up the goods,” Aria said.

“That came out of your mouth,” Deja told her friend.

“Gah. Sorry.”

“We need to get this woman some ice cream. Or chocolate,” Priya declared.

“Already done that,” Chiara said. “This is not our first rodeo.”

“Rodeo,” Aria mused. “Do you think you could do hot billionaire at the rodeo?”

“With amnesia,” Priya put in.

“Head injury. From falling off. Doesn’t remember he’s rich. Falls for … oh, my goodness gracious, Auburn, take over my seat, I have to go write this down.

Auburn surveyed the mess that was the map of the world.

“Can’t keep Beachcrest from being torn down,” she said. “Can’t seem to stop making the same dumbass romantic mistakes. But fuck me if I can’t save the world from the rampages of biowarfare.”

39

In the morning she made waffles.

She’d had the flu late last fall in New York, right before she’d left Patrick. She hadn’t been able to get out of bed because her body ached like it had been hit by a truck and she got nauseated if she stood up. Patrick had been busy making a deal, but he’d had his housekeeper care for Auburn, bringing her chicken soup and orange juice and echinacea. After a week she’d been able to rise for short periods of time, but she’d felt like she was moving underwater, suffocated and weighed down, the world strangely sluggish and bland.

That was how she felt this morning. She watched her arm move, beating the batter in the bowl, but she felt strangely disconnected from it. She carried plates out and set them down in front of her guests; she smiled at them and made conversation, but she couldn’t have told you what anyone said.

When she’d left Patrick, she’d felt liberated. Terrified, yes. But elated.

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