His gut clenched hard enough to make the soup in his belly slosh around. Of all the things for someone to do to him, trying to poison him wasn’t the worst. Still, it was a pretty crappy thing to do to a person on purpose. “Are you shitting me?”
Fallon didn’t answer his rhetorical question. She was already halfway down the hall, marching toward his front door.
Zach figured he had two options—watch the whole thing go down on his screen via his security app, or go see what would happen next, live and in person. Yeah. It wasn’t even really a choice.
…
Fallon flung open Zach’s front door and made a beeline for the security gate, determined to get to it before the idiot inside decided to open it and let Miss Hemlock back in.
The woman on the other side of the gate must have heard the door because she turned away from a schlubby guy who stood next to her with his cell phone out. Her eyes went wide with surprise for all of a whole millisecond before narrowing into two perfectly-lined slits of displeasure. Well, that was too damn bad because Fallon was thrilled to see the other woman.
“You’ve got some gall to show up here after the stunt you pulled. You could have seriously hurt him,” Fallon said through the wrought iron arms of the security gate.
The other woman tossed her long, pin-straight, impossibly shiny black hair over one shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really, then why the cheap costume?”
“This was not cheap.” The other woman put her hands on her hips, and her hot-pink–painted lips formed a perfect O of offense. “How dare you.”
Fallon crossed her arms and gave Miss Hemlock a chilly smile. “As easily as you dare to purposefully give someone food poisoning.”
The other woman’s gaze slid over to the guy hanging off to the side, so far away that he was practically squashed between the shrubs lining the driveway. In addition to the cell phone in his hand, he had a camera with a telephoto lens hanging from a strap around his neck. Miss Hemlock curled her lips into a confident smile, but she couldn’t stop twisting the string of the micro apron tied around her waist.
“You have no proof that it was on purpose,” she said.
Fallon scoffed. “So you’re pretending you just happened to show up here dressed like that after Zach puked his guts up for almost two days?”
Even with her impeccable makeup, there was no missing the way the other woman’s face lost its color. “He wasn’t supposed to actually throw up,” she said, doubt seeping into her tone. “It was more o
f a joke, really.”
“Well, he was throwing up too much to laugh,” Fallon said.
She no more than got the words out before the photographer and the just-for-fun poisoner both looked past her. No need to guess who had walked up behind her because Miss Hemlock’s bent posture had straightened and the oh-fuck-what-did-I-do look on her face transformed into a sexy pout.
“Oh my God, Zachy,” she said, more flirt than apology. “I’m so sorry.”
Zachy? Fallon turned and looked at the guy who, even at a few pounds lighter after losing his breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past forty-eight hours, still didn’t look like a Zachy. Nope. Not even close. Even the idea of it made Fallon bite back a laugh.
Zach rubbed his square jaw and asked, “What was the plan, Shelly?”
That was exactly what Fallon wanted to know, too, and she mentally gave Zach a high-five before giving the other woman her full attention. This should be good.
Shelly leaned forward in some kind of magic girlie-girl move that showcased her cleavage, and trailed a hot-pink–painted fingernail up one of the security gate bars, looking at Zach from beneath mile-long eyelashes. “Why don’t you let me in where we can talk all about it, and I can show you just how bad I feel about the whole thing.”
There was no way Zach would fall for that load of claptrap. No way. Fallon snorted and glanced over at Zach, who was not looking at her with a can-you-believe-this-shit look on his face. Nope. His gaze was on Shelly—or, more correctly, on her boobs. It took everything Fallon had not to thwack her palm on the back of his head. Men!
He finally tore his focus away from Shelly’s cups that raneth over and up to her face. “We both know you don’t really feel bad. If you did, you wouldn’t have brought the press with you.” He glanced over at the photog. “Hey, Marty.”
The photographer lifted his chin in greeting. “Blackburn.”
Shelly let out a huff that sent her bangs flying upward. “You know how this works, Zachy. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone—you, me, and Marty.”
“No,” he said, sounding more tired than he had a minute ago. “It’s a way for you to use me to lengthen your fifteen minutes and for Marty to get an extra freelance check. Normally I wouldn’t mind so much, but you went too far, Shelly. I have a game tomorrow night.”
“But, Zachy,” she said with an exaggerated pout.
“No, Shelly.” The vein in his temple pulsed, the only tell that this whole thing was pissing him off. “Go home.”