“Am I really that disgusting to look at?”I rolled my eyes.“No fever, at least,” he murmured. “Was it something you ate?”I shook my head. “Drank,” I croaked.“Too much whiskey?”Fuck, he knew me. He read the look of shame on my expression and laughed.“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he said, gently taking me into his arms. He lifted me off the floor and carried me back to my room.“What if I throw up on you?”“There’s this great invention I have to tell you about, Celie,” he said, pressing his lips to my temple. “It’s called a washing machine.”I punched him in the chest.“Don’t call me that,” I grumbled.“It’s been over a year now and I still don’t have the right to give you a nickname?”“I don’t like nicknames.”“And I don’t like Mondays, yet here we are.”I snorted, but it was replaced a moment later with a groan. “I should be at work,” I complained. “I can’t keep slacking off like this.”“Slacking off? Celine, that company runs just fine because of you. Give your employees some credit. They. Routines of any kind while operational can be deadly. Even though Martin and I agreed that the Atwoods weren't likely to do much recon work. I figured they would find out where we lived, get high on something and just show up at our door.Since the clubs were open on Sunday, Mike and I went back to the scene of my crime. I knew I had no backup and that it was risky but I had to show people that I did not fear the Atwoods, even though I did. Not to fear those two wasn't just stupid, it could well be terminally stupid.I sat so that I could keep my eye on the door and Mike sat so that he could film everything. He was using an only slightly disguised camera. It was a high definition camera in a case to make it look like a common cell phone."What," Mike asked when he saw my reaction."Blane Atwood just came in. You know most people look better than their mugshot. Thomas Atwood had been the exception, but blain actually did look better. A whole lot better. If I weren't in town to destroy.
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