Free Off Limits by Lola Darling Page B

was it again?"
    The waiter returns with a couple more of the very strong, very tasty rum drinks, and I sip mine as Heather fills me in on her own current dramas, work war stories and successes, and who's fighting with who in our extended friend group. Before I know it, an hour has flown by. It's getting on for 10pm by now, and I need to be up early for the trip. Not to mention I haven't finished packing yet.
    But the waiter has been great about keeping our glasses filled, and with the rum sparkling in my veins, when Mark returns to our table and extends a hand to both of us, just as salsa music erupts in the background and most of Heather's coworkers pour onto the dance floor, I can't resist. It's been too long since I've done something so irresponsible.
    It's been too long since I've done something, period.
    So I accept his hand, link my other arm around Heather's, and the three of us swing out onto the hardwood floor of the club, fresh drinks in hand and our hips swaying to the beat.
    I'll deal with tomorrow tomorrow. For now, I'm all about tonight.

Ten

Max
    I sit in the sporty little convertible Ferrari I rented for this day trip, idling outside the address Chloe emailed me a week ago. Little Miss OCD Planner is running late.
    Very late.
    I check the clock on the dashboard again and dial her number for the fifth time since I pulled up almost an hour ago. If I'm honest, part of me is starting to worry. As many complaints as I have about Chloe, tardiness has never been one of them. Especially not for a job this important, on a day when we really need to be on schedule. Did something happen to her? By this point in our working relationship, I was used to waking up with at least three email forwards from her in my inbox, usually dated 6am or some ungodly hour, because the woman appeared to be a true morning person. But I haven’t heard a peep from her since our confrontation in the elevator bank yesterday.
    She might still be mad, but she’d at least send me a detailed schedule of how mad she’ll be throughout which steps of this case-planning process to go with her anger.
    I'm climbing out of the car to go and ring her bell when her front door finally opens, and Chloe steps outside.
    Or at least, I assume it's Chloe. It's a bit hard to tell, given the enormous sunhat she's wearing and the sunglasses that envelop her narrow, delicate face, in place of her usual glasses. But no one else would wear heels quite that deadly-looking at this hour of the morning, so I figure it's got to be my girl.
    My girl ? No. My incessantly-fastidious-to-the-point-of-driving-me-insane coworker. That’s all.
    "Chloe?" I leave the convertible to cross the pavement to her door. "Need a hand?" She's lugging what looks like half of her apartment. Who needs that much stuff for one short trip? We're only going to be staying at Suzie's ranch for a few nights, two at most. Yet Chloe looks like she's prepared for a weeklong trip to the Sahara, to judge by the size of her suitcase.
    She squints at me, her lips bared as the sunlight strikes her face, and that's when I realize. The narrowed eyes, the deep grimace, the complete lack of makeup on her face, the way her hair, where it sticks out from under the wide-brimmed hat, is wild and frizzy, not tamed into its usual tight curls . . . she's as infuriatingly sexy as ever, but one thing is fairly obvious.
    "Fun night?" I ask, lifting one eyebrow.
    "Rum is the devil. I think I'm dying," she says. Her voice comes out hoarse and choked. But when I extend a hand to take her suitcase, at least she lets me take it from her, and carry it across the sidewalk to the car.
    That, more than anything, makes me realize how much she's hurting. Normally, Chloe MacIntyre refuses to so much as allow someone to hold a door open for her, let alone carry something.
    Annoyed as I may be at her lately, I can’t stand the sight of her suffering right now.
    "I'll be right back," I tell her, my eyes already fixed on the corner,