Annabel flopped on the kitchen top, placing the glass by her side and returning her attention to the bottle in her hands. Grunting from the strain, she finally forced the cap open and filled her glass. She almost spilled it on the countertop and winced as she imagined her father’s face had he seen how she almost wasted his expensive scotch. She was just picking up the glass when she caught a movement from the corner of her eye.
Anna prayed it wasn’t Iris—she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. When her eyes landed on the man leaning on the doorframe, she almost cursed out loud. She pointedly ignored him, raising the glass to her lips and drinking the fiery liquid in one gulp. The scotch burnt her throat, but she tried not to show it.
She rarely drank, but she had decided that forgetting
