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Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 29 из 138I guess that’s my reward for sprinting the last few blocks up Fifth Avenue so Iwouldn’t be late.
I’ve barely taken two steps into the apartment’s foyer, however, before I hear her lovely voice call out from the kitchen. “Kristin, is that you? Tell me it’s you.”
“Good morning, Penley,” I answer.
Though, like yesterday, it’s been anything but a good morning. In fact, with the repeat of the bad dream, having to see that creepy detective again, and, in between, shattering one very expensive camera lens, the morning so far has been downright awful. One of my worst ever.
I walk through the red velvet-lined dining room with its crystal-dripping chandelier and push through the swinging door of the white-on-white-on-stainless kitchen to see Penley sitting over a cup of coffee.
Huh?
Sitting next to her is Michael.
Great… just great.
This is hardly the first time the three of us have been in the same room together, but it’s the last thing I need right now. Of course, Michael’s probably getting a big kick out of it.
Or maybe not.
Actually, he doesn’t look too chipper as he glances up from his Wall Street Journal. With bleary eyes, rumpled ash-blond hair, and his body wrapped sloppily in a robe, hungover would be more like it.
“Be careful we don’t talk too loud, Kristin,” says Penley in a sarcastic whisper. “Someone here was out a little late with the boys last night.”
“You’re lucky it was the Swedes and not the Russians,” says Michael, barely above a mumble. “Otherwise, I’d still be in bed.”
“Oh, yes, how lucky for all of us,” says Penley, rolling her eyes. She actually gives me a smile, as if the two of us are sharing some kind of female-bonding moment.
Pu-lease.
Michael’s evening with the Swedes must have gone on long after he said good-night to me. Long,long after, I should think, as he’s rarely late for the office.
The only other time I saw him like this was when Penley last took the kids out to her parents in Connecticut for the night and Michael stayed in the city, claiming he had to work. The two of us snuck off to Brooklyn, grabbed a back table at a restaurant, Bonita, and drank three pitchers of sangria. We woke up the next morning – in a suite Baer Stevens keeps on Central Park South – with headaches the size of Mexico.
Penley glares at Michael. “Well, aren’t you at least going to say hello to Kristin?”
“Hello to Kristin,” he parrots, his eyes not budging from the newspaper.
Penley whacks his arm, and I do everything not to smile.
I’ve barely taken two steps into the apartment’s foyer, however, before I hear her lovely voice call out from the kitchen. “Kristin, is that you? Tell me it’s you.”
“Good morning, Penley,” I answer.
Though, like yesterday, it’s been anything but a good morning. In fact, with the repeat of the bad dream, having to see that creepy detective again, and, in between, shattering one very expensive camera lens, the morning so far has been downright awful. One of my worst ever.
I walk through the red velvet-lined dining room with its crystal-dripping chandelier and push through the swinging door of the white-on-white-on-stainless kitchen to see Penley sitting over a cup of coffee.
Huh?
Sitting next to her is Michael.
Great… just great.
This is hardly the first time the three of us have been in the same room together, but it’s the last thing I need right now. Of course, Michael’s probably getting a big kick out of it.
Or maybe not.
Actually, he doesn’t look too chipper as he glances up from his Wall Street Journal. With bleary eyes, rumpled ash-blond hair, and his body wrapped sloppily in a robe, hungover would be more like it.
“Be careful we don’t talk too loud, Kristin,” says Penley in a sarcastic whisper. “Someone here was out a little late with the boys last night.”
“You’re lucky it was the Swedes and not the Russians,” says Michael, barely above a mumble. “Otherwise, I’d still be in bed.”
“Oh, yes, how lucky for all of us,” says Penley, rolling her eyes. She actually gives me a smile, as if the two of us are sharing some kind of female-bonding moment.
Pu-lease.
Michael’s evening with the Swedes must have gone on long after he said good-night to me. Long,long after, I should think, as he’s rarely late for the office.
The only other time I saw him like this was when Penley last took the kids out to her parents in Connecticut for the night and Michael stayed in the city, claiming he had to work. The two of us snuck off to Brooklyn, grabbed a back table at a restaurant, Bonita, and drank three pitchers of sangria. We woke up the next morning – in a suite Baer Stevens keeps on Central Park South – with headaches the size of Mexico.
Penley glares at Michael. “Well, aren’t you at least going to say hello to Kristin?”
“Hello to Kristin,” he parrots, his eyes not budging from the newspaper.
Penley whacks his arm, and I do everything not to smile.