Page 145 of On a Fault Line

“And this room can be yours when you visit, Penny,” Nic announces.

I look around the space. “I love it.”

“You did well, bro,” Graham says, patting Nic on the back.

“Yes, well done,” Collins agrees.

It is easy to be genuinely happy for Claire and Nic. They are so giving to everyone else that I’m proud of them for following a dream of owning their own home.

“Okay,” she says robustly. “It’s cocktail time, bitches!”

Nic moves to his girl to plant a full kiss on her lips. “I’ll be in my office with Graham and Collins if any of you need us.”

Claire pouts, putting her hands on her hips. “Don’t you want to try my special mixed drinks?”

I bite my bottom lip, as Nic fakes his disappointment.Oh, he’s good.

“Maybe later. I have some business to take care of and some emails to answer.”

Claire tosses her head back and cackles. “He is a horrible liar, am I right? No need to answer. I’m always right.”

We all laugh. Well, everyone but Nic.

“I am standing right here, Claire.”

She ignores him. “Anyhoo, let me run ahead and do one last thing to prep. You ladies just wait for the grand reveal.”

“No running, Claire,” he scolds, watching her skip down the hall.

Angie and I look at each other, and there’s apprehension written all over her face.

“This is going to be bad, isn’t it?” I ask her.

She’s had way more experience with Claire’s “bright” ideas than I have, yet something tells me neither of us could have prepared for what we will soon be experiencing.

“Ready!”

Angie and I both give each other solidarity pats on the backs and walk with trepidation to the screeching noise.

Claire meets us halfway and drapes her arms around our backs, guiding us into her massive kitchen. “Are you ready for your destiny?”

We all laugh. Well, until we see the containers of supplements resting on the countertop.

Oh, please no.

My posture straightens as I silently read the labels. I hate the taste of cough syrup, so I’m not sure I can actually consume anything that she will be offering.

“I need you both to do a taste test on my concoctions.”

“Claire…” Angie says hesitantly, probably feeling the stirring of panic that I’m starting to feel.

“Yes?”

“You said cocktails…”

“Umm, well, that was a euphemism to lure you inside my home. I need you to do this—for science.”

I laugh over her ability to make any situation fun. “So, what are you serving up?” I ask, looking at all of the little glasses lined up behind number tags, labeled one through six.

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