Page 12 of Better Daddy

“Hmm.” She tips her head again. “Kevin…Keith…Ken, maybe? It started with theKsound.”

Right. Names aren’t her thing. She can’t keep them straight. Rather than waste my time trying to get accurate information from her, I flip through a mental list of clients and then my adversaries. Maybe Ken White. But he doesn’t have a 551 area code. The man is in Manhattan. I can’t think of another person with aKname who would be calling me. Though I suppose it could be a Chris or a Chuck. Hell, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was a woman. I’ll figure it out when I call.

“Is this a five?” I point to the fourth number.

She peers at the Post-it and shakes her head. “How would I know?”

“Because you wrote it,” I grit out. “I can’t tell what it says.”

“I hate it when that happens.” With a sigh, she spins and sashays back into the conference room. No apology, no attempt to help me. And I’m once again cursing my sod of a brother for bringing her in tohelp.

Crumpling the Post-it in my hand, I stomp for the door.Whoever called to speak to me will just have to do it again. And I’ll have to bring up terminating Amy at our next partner meeting.

“Sully,” Cal calls from the doorway where Amy just disappeared.

Annoyance zaps through me. Once again, I was so close.

“Yes,” I snap without turning.

“We need to talk about Sloaney and the plan to get her to move in. I have an idea?—”

“No.” I have a plan. I do not need help. I will win my wife back.

“No?” Cal’s tone is full of confusion.

I refuse to turn around. I don’t need to see him to know exactly what expression he’s wearing. Part of me wants to be a wanker and remind him about the forehead lines he’s always warning me about, but that would just lead to more talking. That’s the last thing I want.

“No talking.” I push the door open, bracing myself to be peltedwith the bloody orange ball he’s always armed with. By some miracle, I make it out to the parking lot unscathed. I pick up my pace, heading straight for my black 7 Series.

The door to the building clunks open again, and I risk a glance over my shoulder, ready to curse at Cal. Instead, I find a pair of purple eyes watching me.

I whip around completely, smiling now. “Madame E.” Even to my own ears, my voice comes out like a song, bright and cheerful. I might not want my brother’s help, but this woman might have answers.

“Sullivan.” She nods, adjusting her bags.

I stride toward her, chewing up the distance in a heartbeat, and hold out my hands. “Let me.”

She cocks her head and that thick gray shock of hair catches my eye. It always stands out against the jet-black, but today, she’s dressed in flowing dark purple layers, making it even harder to ignore.

Forcing my focus back to her face, I flash her my most charming smile. “I insist.”

“Well, aren’t you the gentleman?” She passes over the three reusable bags.

As she releases them, gravity takes over, and my arm drops. Bloody hell, they’re heavy.

She waves a hand at the empty air beside her. “Sebastian and I are heading to a friend’s for a seance. Can’t lead one properly without my candles and these books.”

Yes, this woman spends a good part of her time with a ghost, and yes, I’m going to ask her for help. Don’t judge me, I’m desperate.

“Have you seen any more about Sloane?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes, her lips pursed like maybe she’s concentrating. Or annoyed. Hell, maybe she has gas.

After a moment, she straightens and breaks into a bright smile. “A bubbly dance.”

A bubbly what? Dance?My unhappy pregnant wife, whostomped out of here practically cursing my name, is doing a happy, bubbly dance today? What the fuck happened? Was it something at work?

Hurt and envy surge up inside me. I want the best for her, to celebrate every one of her successes, but I don’t want WillBloodyHiggins to be the one making her happy.