Page 54 of The Layover

Eloise scowled. “Promise you’ll give it to Carly.”

I tucked it into my shirt pocket and patted it gently. There was no way I was going to tell her no. “I promise I’ll give it to Carly and ask her for the alien’s story.” And I had at least a little while to figure out what kind of response would be least likely to break Eloise’s heart if Carly didn’t want it.

The notion sent a spike of anger and hurt through me, and I suppressed the reaction.

Diego and I made sure Eloise was set for the day with Ariana, and headed to the church.

Carly was already waiting, sitting at the table, typing away on the tablet she carried everywhere on the job site. Seeing her there, hair pulled into a messy bun, loose strands teasing her neck, and I had a flashback to last week. Taking her… Sharing her with Diego… Feeling her tight, slick heat wrapped around me…

The memory was better than coffee to get my pulse racing first thing, and far worse if I wanted to get anything done today.

She looked up as we approached, and her smile was the same cool one she’d used at the end of last week. “Happy Monday, gentlemen. Ready to continue your drive for world conquest?”

“One restaurant at a time.” I was also ready to ignore the background noise and do business.

Carly’s gaze landed on my chest, and heat raced over me.

“Is that a pocket full of toys, or are you just happy to see me?” she winced the instant the words passed her lips.

I raised my brows. “Yes. I have a pectoral erection.”

“Pec-rection?” Diego laughed. “Is that a thing?”

This was going to get ridiculous and quickly. I pulled the alien out and handed it to Carly. “Eloise made you a present. She says you need to tell the alien’s story.”

Carly’s smile went from sad to warm to professional all in the amount of time it took her to grasp the mini figurine. “Tell her thank you, and that I will share their story as soon as they share it with me.” She set it next to her tablet with the utmost care.

“Hey, we have a problem. Boss wants to talk to you.” A new voice cut through the fun. One of the work crew stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

We followed him in a neat little train, through the demolished kitchen, and out to the back alley. A pallet of boxes waited for us, with one of them set aside and open.

When I saw the flash of almost neon blue glinting in the morning sun, I knew what was wrong before anyone said anything. “That’s not the right tile.” For anything. Anywhere in my life. “Where did this come from?”

“It’s what was delivered,” the contractor said.

“Stand by. We’ll figure out what’s going on.” Diego looked as frustrated as I felt.

He and I started making calls, tracking along the supply chain. Carly watched and listened and muttered about wishing she spoke better Italian.

I finally got someone on the line who had more answers for me than Nothing’s changed. We shipped what we were told.

“We were told the request changed. I got the information from Ms. Hammond’s assistant,” he told me in Italian, with the confidence of a man who knew he’d done nothing wrong.

Carly’s assistant? “Ms. Hammond doesn’t have an assistant.” Did she? I covered the mouthpiece. “Do you have an assistant?” I whispered to Carly.

She frowned and shook her head.

“What was the name of the person you talked to?” I returned to the phone call.

“He didn’t give it. But I can tell you he was American and didn’t speak the language nearly as well as he thought.”

What? That would make sense, if the call came from The Raphael Group, but I’d never talked to anyone there who even pretended to speak Italian, and they wouldn’t have made this request without telling Carly. Without telling us. “We need the tile we originally ordered.”

“Can’t do it. The original is a high demand design. The instant the order was canceled, someone else snatched it up.”

My frustration soared. This was going to cost us time. Money. “We can’t use what we were sent.”

“You can pay the restocking fee and we can send you something else in return.”

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