Page 170 of Dial F for Finance
Miranda gasps, throwing a manicured hand over her heart in a display of theatrical offense. “Jenna Pemberton-Cruz! How could you even ask that?” She holds the dramatic, wide-eyed pose for exactly three seconds before her face falls into a sheepish, unapologetic grin. “OK, fine. I had absolutely zero idea you were in Queens until Serena mentioned you were back. But let me tell you, the retroactive devastation I felt? Crippling. I was retroactively inconsolable.”
Jenna’s lips twitch, her dry wit firmly intact. “Your delayed mourning is noted and appreciated, Miranda. Thank you for your service.”
“Anytime,” Miranda chirps, already scanning the room for the bar. Rob shoots me a commiserating look as they pass, trailing his chaotic offspring.
I slide my arm back around Jenna’s waist, pulling her against my side. The noise level in the loft spikes again as Dustin bellows from the living area.
“MICHAELA! YOU’RE ANNIHILATING US!”
I glance over Jenna’s shoulder.
Logan is sitting cross-legged on the rug beside my towering brother, both of them hunched over controllers. Michaela sits between them with her miniature briefcase abandoned at her feet and the expression of a tiny warlord.
Her kart shoots across the finish line in first place.
Logan pushes his glasses up his nose. “I don’t think she should be allowed to play.”
Michaela throws her head back and cackles like the little evil genius she is.
“Again!” she demands.
Dustin collapses backward onto the rug. Hannah signs something that I think includes the word terrifying, but it’s hard to tell because she’s laughing so hard her hands wobble.
“She says you’re terrifying,” Dustin translates.
Michaela beams. “Thank you.”
Jenna leans into me. “Neither of them is going to recover from this.”
“Michaela’s ruthless,” I agree. “I taught her everything she knows.”
Jenna gives me a look. “You taught Michaela how to cheat at cards.”
“I’ve been an important influence.”
Across the room, my mother-in-law is currently wielding a wooden spoon at Caleb. “Tupperware is an investment, Kingsley. You don’t put the lids in the bottom rack of the dishwasher. That’s how they warp. Do you want warped seals? Because that’s how you get dry ziti.”
Caleb, a man who regularly dismantles witnesses in federal court, is nodding with absolute, terrified reverence. “Bottom rack is a hazard. Understood, Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Should we save him?” I ask, gesturing toward the hostage situation with my chin.
Jenna considers this, her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Give it another five minutes. It builds character.”
“You know,” I murmur, lowering my voice so it’s just for her. I brush my thumb over the curve of her hip, feeling the friction of the emerald silk. “Your meticulously crafted run-of-show says dinner is at seven. But it doesn’t explicitly specify what the hosts are required to do between now and then.”
Jenna tilts her head, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Are you looking for a loophole in my itinerary, Cruz?”
“I’m just saying, the walk-in pantry is completely soundproof.”
“The pantry is currently full of highly stressed caterers,” she counters smoothly.
“The coat closet, then.”
She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my groin. She reaches up, her fingers grazing the lapel of my maroon jacket, her touch a silent promise. “Patience, partner. Let’s feed the masses first. Then you can show me exactly how ruthless you are.”
“I don’t have nearly that much patience,” I murmur, sliding my hand from her waist to the curve of her spine.
I dip my head and capture her mouth and taste the expensive champagne on her tongue, feeling the quiet, immediate hum of her response as she leans entirely into my space, the rigid edge of her clipboard pressing flush against my chest. Right here, in the middle of a room generating a hundred decibels of unmitigated chaos, she kisses me back like we are the only two people on the grid.
