Page 144 of The Invite
The vein in my temple throbs.
The only ones remaining to check in with are that bookish girl and the nerdy boy. I don’t hold out hope that those two will have fared any better.
Six of us and still none of us manage to catch even a glimpse of him. I’d be impressed with Anonymous if I didn’t want to choke the bastard to death.
“We need a new plan or stall with a stupid secret. I’m not taking a risk ignoring him again.”
Neither do I. “We all need to meet tomorrow to figure out our next step.”
“Where, though? I can sense that creep’s eyes on us,” he points out. “He’s got no clue we’re all working together. Not yet, at least.”
“I’ll arrange a discreet place. You make sure everyone shows up.”
“Why don’t you ask your sister?” he clips out. “Sounds like her dream job, planning a soiree and shit.”
“Shocking you know how to say, let alone know, what soiree means.”
“Blame it on your posh school, Grayson.” He snorts derisively before turning serious. “Tell Scarlett to call the junior chick and the nerd. I’ll let my friends know.”
He hangs up without waiting for my response.
Shaking my head, I pocket the phone.
It’s been over an hour and Nessa still hasn’t shown her face, making me antsy with the need to run upstairs and take her in my arms.
Fuck! I scrub a hand down my face.
I’m behaving like a lovesick fool.
Instead of giving in to the urge, I grab the shopping bags and carry them to the kitchen, busying myself with putting everything away. I’m finished ten minutes later and I become restless when she still doesn’t come down.
What if she slipped in the shower and hit her head?
I scoff inwardly. I’m being paranoid.
She’s fine.
Besides, women take their sweet-ass time pampering themselves.
She’ll probably be hungry. I decide to cook lunch. Looking at the various options, I pick mac and cheese with broccoli on the side. Quick and easy. For dinner, I’ll make her something healthier. Perhaps chicken curry and rice.
Halfway into grabbing the necessary utensils and ingredients, the stupid voice pops up again.
What if she’s not and you’re just down here cooking?
“Motherfuck—”
Dropping everything, I exit the kitchen and take the stairs two at a time.
I’m beginning to see why people hate being emotional. Feelings make them go nuts, imagine fake scenarios, and do stupid shit.
My feet move faster when I hear the shower running through the ajar bedroom door. Shoving it open fully, I briefly scan the unmade bed and storm into the adjoined bathroom.
I stop short.
The tightness in my chest fades.
She’s okay.
