Marrying Mr. Wrong (Dirty Martini Running Club #3) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,25

or being unlawfully coerced. Unfortunately for me, the list didn’t include I was really drunk and didn’t mean to.

So it appeared I’d be taking this predicament home with me. I’d have to call his office tomorrow and go from there. There wasn’t anything else I could do.

“Mrs. Cox? Excuse me, Mrs. Cox?”

I stopped in my tracks, my eyes widening. Oh god, Mrs. Cox was me. Afraid to find out why someone was calling for me by that name, I slowly looked over my shoulder.

The woman from the front desk approached with a small gift bag. “Mrs. Cox, this was left at the concierge desk for you.”

“Thank you.” My hands trembled as I took the bag. There was a little card clipped to it that read Mrs. Sophie Cox. Had he written that? Or the concierge?

I reached inside and pulled out my bra. With a gasp, I shoved it back in.

She gave me a bewildered smile and left.

At least I had my bra back?

With a sigh, I went outside to get a taxi back to my hotel. I had a flight to catch.

10

Cox

By the time I got home that afternoon, I still had a fucking headache. I left my sunglasses on and went straight for the kitchen. My personal chef had already meal-prepped, so I grabbed a finished meal and popped it in the microwave.

I headed over to the liquor cabinet and eyed the bottles for about three seconds before deciding more alcohol was not what my body needed right now.

Instead, I grabbed my dinner out of the microwave—something with chicken and vegetables that smelled great—and took it to the dining table.

I’d bought this house on Lake Washington mostly for the view—it was spectacular from almost every window. And the house itself was gorgeous. It had hardwood floors and the original trim and baseboards. I liked a house with character, and this one had plenty.

I ate my dinner and was about to get up to take a shower when the front door opened. I groaned at the sound of high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She hadn’t wasted any time, had she?

Althea swept in, dressed like she was on her way to the office, even though it was a Sunday evening. She had an annoying habit of barging in here unannounced to discuss things that could wait until we were at the office. It had gotten worse since her divorce last year.

“What the hell, Cox?”

“Nice to see you, too. My trip was great, thanks for asking.”

“I realize your trip was great.” She held up her phone.

I took off my sunglasses and peered at her phone. It was a photo on someone’s Instagram of me with Drake Meadows.

And Sophie.

I ignored it. “Calloway is interested. I expect he’ll sign by the end of the week.”

She opened her mouth like she’d meant to keep ranting at me, but paused. “The meeting went well?”

“Very well. He likes what we’re planning. I’ll have Oliver send the full prospectus tomorrow.”

“Well at least you have some good news.”

I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I was in Vegas. Things got a little crazy. What are you, the morality police?”

“Hardly. But need I remind you that this project is already on thin ice thanks to Dominic’s extracurricular activities?”

“Then you’ll be happy to know there weren’t any hookers.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s something.”

“For fuck’s sake, Althea. I partied with some rock stars in Vegas. It’s not like it’s the first time. What’s the problem?”

“Your image is the problem. Another scandal right now wouldn’t just ruin the project. It could ruin you.”

“Stop being dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic, I’m being practical. One of us has to be.”

“On the contrary, I’m immensely practical.”

Shaking her head, she walked to the liquor cabinet and helped herself to a glass of whiskey. “You’re ridiculous. That’s what you are.”

I drummed my fingers on the table, my eyes on my empty plate. Should I tell her? She was going to find out sooner or later, and the tongue-lashing would probably be worse if I waited. Might as well rip the bandage off now. Get it the fuck over with.

“There’s something else.”

She paused with her glass halfway to her lips. “What?”

“I got married.”

“That’s not funny, Cox.”

“It’s not a joke.”

She laughed and took a long swallow. “Of course it’s a joke. Got married to who?”

“Sophie Abbott.”

“Who the fuck is Sophie Abbott?”

The way she said Sophie’s name with barely disguised venom almost made me fly out of my seat. My jaw hitched and I clenched my hands