“When I couldn’t reach you at the house, I called Estelle. I knew she’d know where you were.” He adds in a clipped aside, “That old bat always knows where you are.”
Why is he angry? Why is he acting so strange? What the hell is going on?
“Christopher?”
“What?”
“Why are you calling me?”
His silence is long and tense. I know exactly what he’s doing during it: pacing back and forth with one hand propped on his hip while scowling at the floor. He’s in his penthouse in Manhattan or in some swanky hotel room in the emirates on a high floor with a good view and thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
His dark blond hair is perfect. His crisp blue dress shirt is rolled up his forearms. Though he’s been working non-stop for more than a dozen hours and is exhausted, he looks like an ad f
