After the Climb (River Rain #1) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,32
talk in order to have some closure. Do you have plans this evening? Could you meet me in the bar at The Queen at around 8:30?
No dicking around, he immediately texted back.
Yes.
It might not be right, but after getting that from Genny, it was what he was going to do.
So he opened up his text string with his ex-wife and asked, Do you have time to talk tomorrow?
He got a, See you then. from Imogen.
He was texting a, Count on it. back when he got a reply from Dora.
I saw. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You’ve done enough of that.
He was staring at that in shock when another text came in from his ex.
Be happy, Duncan. We’ll have lunch some time. If I’m not incarcerated after driving down to Tucson and holding my son at gunpoint to force him to study. Remain off Instagram. I’m deleting my account. He’s killing me. Slowly.
It was not lost on him that when she found help that worked for her, Dora had come back. The woman he’d married and made a family with who he’d loved.
It was too late, what they’d had and built was gone, regrettably, but irrevocably.
But knowing she had this kind of lock on it, that she could joke and be real…
Again, for the first time in a long time, Duncan’s breath was coming easier.
We’ll do an intervention at Thanksgiving. He texted back.
If he survives that long. She replied.
He gave her a thumbs-up emoji and a smiley.
She returned an angry face and an eye-rolling emoji.
He was grinning when he went directly back to Genny’s text and programmed her number in.
He was still grinning when he opened the Instagram account that he had not touched since his assistant had downloaded it on his phone.
It took him a minute, but he finally found it by searching #isitgonnabeimoway.
And when he found it, he could see it.
How they were bent toward each other, faces close, focus intense, no one in that restaurant but them.
They were having a deep, informative, but not entirely comfortable conversation.
The picture did not say that.
It looked like he was about to kiss her.
Hard.
And she wanted to swallow him whole.
Duncan was still grinning when he got up and walked out of his office.
Completely forgetting about Corey’s letter.
Chapter Seven
The Drinks
Imogen
I sat at the bar, knowing this was a bad idea.
There were so many reasons it was a bad idea, it wasn’t funny.
First, Cookie was upstairs, as delivered by Mary, who was already likely back in Phoenix, this as delivered by Rodney.
Chloe wasn’t available to help her with getting my cat and car to me, so she did what Mary always did. Took the bull by the horns and got things done.
So now Cookie, her litter box, her food and water bowls, the placemat I kept under them and about a month’s worth of cat food was up in my suite.
All of that along with the contents of four additional suitcases, including the huge ones I took when I spent time in Europe. Offerings, after I’d unpacked them, that I saw afforded me every possible wardrobe change (for an urban woman on the go, it should be noted, not a woman on a break in a causal mountain town), including accessories that did not stop at shoes and handbags.
I could not focus on why Mary was behaving like I was moving for half a year into the deluxe suite at The Queen.
I had a great many other things to focus on.
I’d managed to be able to spend about a half an hour with my cat in new surroundings before I’d had to go to dinner, and I didn’t feel that was enough time.
She needed her mommy.
I’d been up to check when I returned from dinner, and okay, when I’d opened the door, I woke her up from napping.
But I still sensed the unease.
The second reason this was a bad idea was that, within seconds of sliding on my barstool, Matt had texted.
His text had included four words.
Who is this guy?
And a photo.
One of the ones taken of Duncan and I at lunch.
I’d had no choice but to text back, An old friend of Uncle Corey’s and mine. A long story. I’ll catch you up later.
Matt didn’t reply.
Which was a concern, considering that photo looked like we were on a date, but one hundred percent not a first date.
More like the seven-hundred and fifty-seventh one.
Which, if it was a date with Duncan and me (and it wasn’t), was maybe close to the right number.