Page 15 of Safari Murder Party
Capybara?Everyone else got majestic animals, and she got arodent? The world’s largest rodent, but that hardly softened the blow. After Bertram’s and Deepti’s digs, it was hard not to take this as another undercut.
Then, worst of all, Fletcher looked up to find the rodent of the hour perched high above Dyer’s head. Her room. Right next to Waylon’s.
The prodigal son smirked. With each word glazed in faux niceties, he said, “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, neighbor.”
Fletcher squinted. “How lucky for you.”
“Something wrong, Spence?” It wasn’t only a question. It was a challenge.
Yes!She hated him, and they would have to share a wall, and the mere thought of it made her want to shoot knives out of her knuckles Wolverine-style and slash his obnoxious smug grin to a trillion pieces.
Fletcher said none of that. She smiled. Sweet and unbothered and perfectly collected. “No problem at all.”
She ducked inside her room, closing the door just shy of slamming.Keep your cool, Fletcher. He wants to get a rise out of you.
Thankfully, the capybara room deserved its own postal code. She’d hardly even know he was on the other side of her walls.
Also thankfully, the capybara room wasnotrodent-themed.
Jute rug, vintage trunks arranged like nightstands, fan blades designed like palm fronds. But it was not without the usual Cartwright elegance: a crystal chandelier; an en suite bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and a double vanity; silk jacquard curtains framing a massive window.
And the view. Theview.
From this vantage, everything glittered in the golden light. She hauled open the windowpane, and below, there were courtyards dotted with bistro tables and dripping in bougainvillea. The east wing jutted out toward the savanna. Sunlight striped the grasses, sparkled against the sea beyond the salt-slicked cliffs. No beach with pristine sands. The steep drop fed into churning depths.
Lights had been strung up over the pool patio, and a string quartet bowed their heads, tuning their instruments to the perfect pitch. Silverware clattered and glasses clinked as dinner was being prepared. Fletcher’s private-jet sashimi felt like lifetimes ago. (How was she ever supposed to be satisfied by economy-class miniature pretzels ever again?)
A few of her colleagues were already down there, their laughter bubbling up like prosecco fizz. As the sun sank lower, watercolor pastels gliding across the sky, Fletcher found herself among them.
Attendants floated around the fenced perimeter with silver platters touting smoked salmon tartare and caviar on rosemary crispsand hazelnut-crusted, chocolate-covered strawberries. Fletcher snagged a piece of fruit, savoring it even as juice dribbled down her lips.
She could definitely get used to this.
Fletcher dipped inside her pocket for her phone. If her time zone math proved accurate, Ford would be brunching with Ricky, I Think and have his phone silenced, but some light gloating was in order.
Made it to the promised land!
You’d hate it here
Is what I would say if I were a LIAR. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I’m never leaving. You think anyone would notice if I didn’t come back to the office next week?
After shamelessly triple texting, she hid her phone again, before Dyer could give it the DSLR treatment and smash it to pieces.
The team moved in predictable rhythms, and for the first time since landing on Lydell, Fletcher found her footing. The Brians were both hidden behind their laptops, content to track SEO performance despite being on vacation. Theo and Bertram joined the execs where they hovered around Dyer, no better than moths. Molly, Opal, and Sheila giggled into glasses of chilled wine. Waylon and Joplin lingered by the bar—the bartender handed Joplin something purple with a spear of fruit and a knuckle-deep amber swig to Waylon.
Waylon’s voice drifted across the patio, saying, “And a Manhattan for Spence.”
Fletcher’s eyes sliced toward his.
On any other day, maybe Fletcher would have ignored his existence like she had for the last three years.
But today, after setting the Guinness World Record for Most Jet-Lagged Human Being, she couldn’t stop herself from marching across the porcelain pavers until she was close enough to jab a finger at his chest.
“How?” she asked. His shirt was so soft. Was that bamboo cotton?
Not the point.
His lashes were long, a dark blond. And they batted like he’d done absolutely nothing wrong. “How what?”
