Page 67 of Crash Course
"He’s right," Phin said. "What crawled up your ass? I like Cilla. She’s smart and loyal and easy to talk to. Hell, there was a time . . ."
Totally baiting him. That’s what Phin was doing. "Ha!" Cruz said. "Nice try, asshole. I know what you’re doing. Don’t make me mess up your pretty-boy suit by kicking your ass."
It wouldn’t be the first time one of them got bloody throwing hands. Mom would be pissed, but sometimes it just felt good to beat up on each other. Total stress buster. For all of them.
Phin snorted. "I’m fucking with you."
"I’m aware."
Little brother cocked his head. "Huh."
"What?"
He shrugged. "It’s finally happened. Ro, can you believe it? The mighty Cruz may actually be falling for a woman."
Ro went back to his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "About time. She’s perfect for him."
Phin held up his coffee in a toast. "True. She won’t overthink his inappropriate comments."
"Hey," Cruz shot. "Honesty shouldn’t be a crime."
His brothers exchanged a look and cracked up, the two of them clearly enjoying themselves.
Feet still on the table, Cruz stacked his hands on top of his head. If he wasn’t mistaken, his brothers might be (A) Gloating and (B) Happy for him.
Both A and B were okay.
They were, in fact, exceptional.
After a morningof back-and-forth with the prosecutor regarding the Jenkins plea deal, Cilla dug in her desk drawer for a mirror.
Ooofff.
Flyaway hair, lipstick gone, and mascara smudged under her eyes. How the hell does that happen sitting at a desk?
Not that it mattered. This overhaul required a trip to the ladies’ room.
An altogether fun distraction, considering one Cruz Blackwell had called her earlier requesting a meeting—she checked her wall clock—in thirty minutes.
One o’clock he’d said, and Cruz, from what she knew so far, liked to run on time.
Moving to the bottom desk drawer, she retrieved her spare makeup case that held duplicates of her favorites. Her emergency kit saved her a trip home if she had a dinner or function to attend after work.
On her way to the ladies’ room, she passed Layla, seated at her desk and organizing a stack of folders that would no doubt come Cilla’s way.
"I forgot to tell you," Cilla said, "I have a meeting at one o’clock. Cruz Blackwell from BARS."
"Ooh. I like his name. Sounds hot."
Cilla rolled her eyes, but Layla wasn’t wrong. "Well, brace yourself. Heishot."
"Nice. Are you calling dibs?"
Cilla cracked up. Considering Layla’s twenty-four-year marriage and two grown sons, Cilla didn’t suspect Layla was asking on her own behalf. No. She was simply nosy.
Extremely.
A fact that prompted Cilla to keep her loyal assistant in suspense over her dating life.
