Stitches

Staring at me, he says, “Did you not hear Carrie? This isn’t the time

to expand, Seb. We’re going to have to hustle our asses off to come out of this without losing what we’ve already got.”

“We’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Even splitting half with Ashley, selling your house should turn a decent profit. Things have a way of working out.”

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he demands, “Why aren’t you stressing about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Money means too much to you; you shouldn’t be this calm about potentially losing so much of it.”

This is the annoying part. Donovan assured me he’d get this taken care of quickly, but he hasn’t let me know a specific day yet, and I wish he would. Until the little bitch is dealt with, I have to pretend to be worried about her enough to allay suspicions, and I don’t fucking feel like it. My life is damn near perfect right now. I’ve got everything, Griff’s got everything, and Moira’s got everything. Everyone I love is happy, and I want to enjoy it.

But no. I have to fake it like this loose end is going to unravel my life instead of get snipped off like all greedy fucking loose ends should.

Since I can’t say that to Griff, I just smile at him. “Just looking forward to that steak Moira’s making us for dinner, I guess.”

“No one’s this cheerful because of some meat,” Griff states.

Laughter shoots out of me as I push the elevator button. “Tell that to Moira.”

I start to get stressed when Monday rolls around and I still haven’t heard from Donovan. My stress levels rise on Wednesday when Ashley’s lawyer scores big.

The waiter from the date Griff took Moira on is willing to testify for Ashley. Given the way Griff’s head hangs when he hears the news, that must be really bad.

“We’re fucked,” he said, staring at the ground.

But we’re not supposed to be fucked. I paid good fucking money—even with that supposed discount—to make sure we weren’t fucked. I always keep a large store of cash in the house in case of emergency, and right now, I’m cleaned out. Gave every last wrapper full of cash to Donovan trusting he would handle this. It was absolutely worth the investment if the problem went away, but if the hitman I hired doesn’t deliver, I can’t exactly call the Better Business Bureau about it.

So, yeah.

Maybe we are fucked.

The worst part is, Griff told Moira. I wouldn’t have told Moira until and unless the fucking bank took our house, but Friday I come home from work to Moira sitting at the table, all upset.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands.

Glaring mildly at Griff seated beside her, I answer, “Because there’s nothing to tell. Not yet. We’re still figuring things out. We don’t know how bad it is, and even if it’s the absolute worst… I’ll figure something out.”

Shaking her head, she stares at the table top. “We shouldn’t have done this. We should have waited. We should have let the paperwork go through first—”

Before she can say anything else Griff can latch onto with his goddamn insecurities, I cut her off. “Hey, no. No. Stop that. This is why I didn’t tell you. There’s no problem, okay? Not yet. We did what we needed to do.”

Her eyes, so full of concern, flash to mine. “And now you could lose everything.”

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “Not everything,” I tell her, firmly. “The most important things I have can’t be taken from me. From any of us,” I add, glancing pointedly at Griff. “We all have each other, and we’re all going to be fine.”

Despite my assurances, she says, “Maybe we should sell the house. If we sell ours and he sells his, we can use the money to keep your businesses going and we can move into a smaller place. We don’t need all this room. We all sleep together anyway—hell, we can move to a one bedroom for now.”

“Moira.” I meet her gaze and hold it, draining the franticness out of her. I need her calming presence. I already have to deal with Griff being touchy about shit, I need Moira to be steady and trust me.

Fucking Griff.

Staring her down calms her considerably. Even though as far as she knows, the facts do not back me up, I manage to convey to her that I have things under control.

Or, I think so, until she says, “I could get a job.”

“All right.” I keep her hand and stand, pulling her to her feet. She doesn’t know where I’m going with this so she hesitates. I pick her up and drape her little ass over my shoulder as she squeals.