Twelve
Somehow, she’d managed to sleep, probably because she knew that tossing and turning and replaying that scene in Pirate’s Cove wouldn’t do her any damn good, would only make her less ready for her race with Nasim. And that morning she’d gotten up and calmly showered and gotten dressed, had eaten her breakfast and drunk her coffee and brushed her teeth, had done all the things a person should do while getting ready for their day. Inside, though, she felt as tightly drawn as a bowstring, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. So much was riding on this.
It didn’t help that there was nothing much in the loft to keep her occupied, except those useless old copies of Forbes and Architectural Digest she’d noticed earlier. More than once, she went to the window to check the skies outside; rai
