Page 70 of Wild Card

But I’m not in the mood to play that game. I don’t hide the venom in my tone either. “Fair. Not my monkeys, not my circus.” Then I turn to Clyde and point. “You are my monkey, and this is my circus, and I’m here to make you your scrambled eggs. Right?”

Clyde eyes me suspiciously as Tripp inserts himself into our conversation. “I may not be your monkey anymore, but I’d really like to be part of this circus too.”

He says it so affably, so smoothly. But I know that’s how he is. I know how calculated he can be. I know howfakehe can be.

Clyde shoots Tripp a dirty look and crosses his arms, but he says nothing else.

Not even when Tripp adds, “Maybe I could take you to lunch later, Gwen? Or dinner? Before I leave tomorrow?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Bash go eerily still.

In fact, it feels like everyone in the kitchen goes still. Suddenly, the attention on me feels hot and heavy, like something I’d like to peel off and escape.

All three men wait with bated breath for what I might say. I blink once, then twice, weighing how best to respond to his public request.

There’s nothing like being asked out by your ex-boyfriend in front of his dad, who you were making out with not twelve hours earlier.

But before I can respond, Bash makes a move. He drops his cup into the sink with a loud rattle before pushing off the counter. Muscles bulge in his arms, flexing in time with the tendons in his neck.

He dusts his hands together like he’s removing some invisible dirt from them, definitely trying to appear more relaxed than he truly is. “Well, on that note,” he announces, “I’m going to hit the road. Get out of your hair. This grass fire in northern Alberta is moving quickly. Time is of the essence and all that.” He smiles tightly, avoiding meeting my eyes, before grabbing his bag and striding out. I watch him leave the kitchen, heart limping along until it falls with a heavy lurch at my feet.

A part of me wants to rush after him, assure him that nothing’s happening here, that nothing will happen here, but he’s off and moving before I can get a word in edgewise.

He doesn’t even look back at me, taking my breath with him as he goes.

“I’ll see you out,” Tripp says, jumping into motion and walking his dad toward the front door of his own house.

I hear them exchange gruff goodbyes along with the back slaps that come with those manly, one-armed hugs. It makes me wonder if that’s the first hug they’ve ever really exchanged.

Before I hear the front door even click closed behind Bash, Tripp calls back to the kitchen, “So what do you say, Gwen? How about that lunch?”

God, I wish he’d knock that off.

I hurry toward the front foyer, not wanting Bash to leave with the impression that I’d go out with Tripp again after everything that’s happened between us. As I round the corner, I say, “You know, I actually…” But the door slams.

Hard.

Hard enough that Tripp turns and furrows his brows toward where Bash just stood, as though he can’t figure out what that was all about.

All I can think is that Bash has left. We never got a chance to talk. I don’t even know how long he’ll be gone for. Suddenly, him leaving to fly a plane into a fire feels monumentally dangerous.

Suddenly, I miss him.

Suddenly, I regret accepting that job offer.

And even though he’s not here to hear it, I look Tripp in the eye and tell him bluntly, “I think it’s better if we don’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

GWEN

Gwen: Stay safe out there.

“You shouldn’t be watching this much news. Rots your brain,” Clyde announces as he enters the open living space. He was quiet on his feet this time, which might mean he’s getting better—or else I was just too absorbed in the TV to notice him.

Either way, I feel like a thief caught in the act. On instinct, I scramble for the remote and flick the screen off before I even consider how fucking bizarre that is.

Clyde stops and quirks a brow at me, suspicious—then he continues walking into the kitchen. He definitely looks more comfortable this morning. “Dang, girl, you must be taking that brain rot seriously.”