Page 30 of The Kat Bunglar

Christian pouted. “I thought the whole point of this trip was to use this penthouse as aluxury backdrop location?”

“Yeah, well...” Kat hesitated, struggling to finish the sentence.

“Youwerealways planning on taking something.” Christian’s voice turned sharp. “What’s wrong, Kat? Can’t own up to your mess?”

Kat shuddered—a flicker of unease.

Then she shook it off.

Now was not the time for second thoughts.

“Not all of us were born into a life of luxury,” she muttered, pressing her lips into a thin line. Her eyes narrowed.“Some of us have to take it.”

Christian studied her but said nothing.

“Now,” Kat continued, her voice cold, “are you going to get what we need, or are you going to get in the way?”

Before Christian could answer—

A sharp knock.

They both froze.

“Laila?” A man’s voice, deep and muffled, sounded through the door.

“Laila, I know you’re in there. You walked right past me in the lobby. We need to talk.”

Kat and Christian stared at each other, mouths wide open.

“Oh my God,” Christian hissed. “What do we do?”

“Ignore it,” Kat whispered. “We have to ignore it.”

A pause. Then—

“Laila, I hate how things went down in L.A. I know you’re upset. Can we please discuss this?” A sigh. Then, more softly— “Lo siento por como te hice sentir.”

Kat’s pulse jumped.

Christian forgot to breathe.

The voice returned, firmer this time. “Look, if you don’t open up, I’m going to call the police and do a wellness check.”

Christian started shaking. “Oh my gosh. The police. We’re going to get caught. We’re going to get caught.”

“No, we’re fine. And technically, we haven’t even done anything yet.” Kat squared her shoulders. “I’ll just open it and explain that she isn’t here. It’ll be fine.”

“Kat, do not open that door. Do not!”

Christian’s frantic whisper barely registered as Kat’s fingers wrapped around the handle.

She swung the door open—

And holy hotness.

Smoldering brown eyes stared back at her from beneath thick lashes. Tousled, curly black hair. A white t-shirt stretched across a broad, well-defined chest before tucking into a pair of perfectly worn jeans.

Oof.

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