the kitchen, eager to get back to the commiserating I was doing before sweaty pits demanded an intermission.
“Did you want a drink?”
Phillipa’s eyes drop to the almost-empty bottle of whiskey in my hand before they return to my face “I thought you were more a margarita type of man?”
“I’ll down anything if it takes the edge off,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “Don’t,” I plea when the humor in Phillipa’s eyes switches to worry. “I had my ass chewed out by Grayson before I entered the shower and was eyed like a freak by Alex earlier today. I’m at my quota for explaining myself today, so either drink with me or leave me to drink alone. Please.”
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, she mutters, “I’ll drink with you.” The tension depriving the air of oxygen eases when she mutters under her breath, “Just don’t blame me if I ram my tongue down your throat after a scotch or two. It was proven without a doubt two weeks ago that I get randy when drunk.” When my brow cocks, wordlessly demanding an explanation, she gives as good as she’s getting. “Don’t go picking locks you don’t want open, BJ. Because if we unlock this vault of craziness, we’ll move straight onto yours.”
More than happy to miss that shitshow, I pour us a generous serving of whiskey before nudging my head to the living room, wordlessly inviting for her to join me in there.
When she follows me with only the slightest groan, I ask, “What’s the reason for your visit?” I shut down the lie I see in her eyes before she can deliver it. “Don’t act like you flew down here for no reason, Phillipa. You like me, but you don’t like me that much.”
She scoffs. “I like you a lot, thank you very much. I just found out the hard way that my feelings would never be reciprocated.” After snatching one of the whiskeys out of my hand, she throws down the double shot in one hit, then slams the empty glass onto the coffee table. “I saw you kiss Melody. It sucked.” If I thought her first confession was shocking, it has nothing on her second one, “Then I kissed Julian. It didn’t mean anything. We were both drunk, and we had no clue who the other was until you invited me to Melody’s ranch a few days later.”
“You said you handled the ransom Julian paid to Castro.”
“No,” she corrects, her voice fierce. “My team did. I was too busy…”
When her words trail off to silence, I fill in the quiet. “Pretending to be an FBI agent. Got it.”
She rolls her eyes before locking them with mine. There’s something in them I haven’t seen before. “I kind of like him, but I shouldn’t because I don’t really know him.” If she were a cartoon, love hearts would be bouncing out of her eyes right now. “But I do. I do like him.”
Although nothing but honesty is heard in her voice, I’m still lost. “And you’re telling me this because…” I understand I have the boy-next-door, best-friend persona down pat, but still, this seems odd.
My eyes snap to Phillipa when she mumbles, “Because there’s a possible conflict of interest.”
I stare at her, begging for her to fill in the blanks.
When she leaves me hanging, I squawk, “How?”
“Do you remember how we theorized about Melody possibly being sold?” When I nod, her big exhale fans my face with whiskey. “I’m reasonably sure Julian was sold.”
The thrashing of my heart juts up my words. “Reasonably sure? Or sure sure? I can’t accept half-assed assumptions, Phillipa. I’m way beyond that.”
My throat works hard to swallow when she mutters, “He was sold. He could have quite possibly been the first…”
“The first…” I gulp when I read the truth from her eyes. “The first baby sold by the Castros’ baby-making syndicate?”
She screws up her face before nodding. She isn’t apprehensive. She’s cringing over the high pitch of my voice. “It gets worse.”
“I don’t know how, but hit me with it.”
Phillipa waits for me to finish my whiskey before spilling her guts. “You also have an undisclosed conflict of interest.”
I’m about to say, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ Melody was Julian’s fiancée—if not still—so that automatically links me to Julian’s case, but I realize I’m way off the money when I see the worry in Phillipa’s eyes.
“Who?”
I’m desperate for another shot of whiskey when she mutters, “Olivia Wilde. Previously known as Ophelia—”