Chapter 7
“Then why were you in Playa del Carmen?”
Ahh, Fox is impressing me with her attempt at a run around the good old Have you ever traveled to a foreign country? If so, what was the purpose of your visit? question. My response is simple but effective. “That’s classified.”
Fox bursts out with, “That’s bullshit.”
I quirk a brow over at Deere, who is in charge of my medical bullshit meter. He nods, indicating I’m telling the truth. Just then, the phone next to Pamola rings. Fox stomps over and snatches it up. She snaps, “What?” before her face pales significantly. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. Of course.”
I can’t help but wonder which member of my staff just ripped into Fox for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
Still, her line of questions brings me back to the afternoon I met Bethany on the balcony between our rooms, where Brendan Blake was singing, rum flowing—albeit not even as close for me as it was for my wife, and the tropical breeze surrounded us.
Regretfully, there was a reason I wasn’t as close to intoxicated as she was. A reason I had to bail on her after the best first kiss of my life. And it had nothing to do with finding out my wife’s full name.