The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

For the last month, I’ve put my heart and soul into that space. Every single detail was meticulously chosen to create an airy, relaxed, sophisticated atmosphere that will make wealthy home buyers drool over the idea of living there.

I slide my finger down the screen to refresh my emails, but unfortunately, when five new emails populate the screen, not a single one of them is from Frederick.

Sheesh. It’s like he’s taking the weekend off or something.

Most of them are the usual spam everyone gets for giving stores their information for those stupid rewards cards that do jack shit. But one email in particular stands out like a boner in a pair of skinny jeans.

From: U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS)

Subject: Urgent Update Regarding Work Visa Lapse

My heart starts to pound furiously in my chest as I tap the screen to open the email, and a sick, cloying feeling immediately takes up residence in my throat. No, no. Surely I’m misreading the subject.

I click furiously and swallow hard as I wait for the interior of the email to load on the Wynn’s sluggish public internet. My spine curls over on itself, and I lick my lips roughly. When the message finally loads, I’m not the least bit comforted by the words inside.

Daisy Diaz,

We are writing to inform you that, as of forty-five days ago, your work visa has expired, and the USCIS Los Angeles field office has not received Form I-765 for an extension.

Holy fucking shit! My work visa is expired?! It’s… No. It can’t be. There’s no way I’ve been in LA for over a year…

What month is it? I know it’s past Valentine’s because I did that whole singleton Chinese food thing while watching Jennifer Garner lose her shit on Jessica Biel’s piñata. And my neighbor Batshit Bob puked all over our hallway on St. Paddy’s Day, so it has to be at least late March.

Shit. No. I’m in Vegas for the Vegas thing, and that’s an April thing…meaning… Oh my God, is it April?!

Oh God, oh God, no.

You are no longer permitted to work and live in the United States. If you would like to extend your work visa, you will have to submit Form I-765. Average processing times are twelve to fourteen months.

Oh my God. Oh, holy hell.

I can’t even finish reading the rest of the email because my heart is pounding so hard in my chest it’s making my vision blurry, and simple tasks like breathing feel impossible.

You have seriously fucked up big-time, Daisy.

The room feels as if it’s closing in on me, and my breaths are harsh, pathetic little pants of distress.

My fucking work visa has expired, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one to blame.

Considering you’re supposed to send in a yearly extension application to keep it active and you’ve been in LA since February of last year, it’s safe to say you are to blame.

How in the hell could I be so stupid? Surely they sent me a notice that I ignored.

Did I mark it as a spam email? No, that’s dumb. There’s no way they sent the only notice of my visa expiring as email, right? It had to come with the rest of the snail mail. Which, of course, I have no respect for, whatsoever.

Gah. Why am I so cavalier about dumping junk mail in the garbage? I should save every goddamn piece of paper that deigns to bestow its presence in my mailbox. I should file it by date, chronologically, in a, like, supersized filing cabinet with reminder alerts on my phone to check every folder each month. I should pay attention to my freaking life’s documents and, I don’t know, get a safe-deposit box like a real adult.

Well, it doesn’t matter now, Dais. It’s too late. You just single-handedly fucked your career.

“Now, Daisy, where were we?” Duncan is back, and he’s all up in my personal space, smiling and grinning and showcasing all the emotions that I am not feeling right now.

He reaches out to slide my hair behind my ear again, and the urge to run is so fucking strong that that’s exactly what I do.

I fucking run.

Away from Duncan.

Away from the big party that Damien and Thomas are throwing for their staff, at which my presence is absolutely expected.

“Daisy!” Duncan’s voice is behind me, but I don’t stop.

Out into the casino area, I run as fast as my feet will take me. And I’m not stopping until I run out of oxygen or break through the time-space continuum and land a couple of months in the past—whichever comes first.

Flynn

At a little after eight, I take a right into the Wynn’s entrance and head toward the main valet.

Of course, I have no plans to let some twentysomething dude hop onto one of my favorite possessions and park it for me. Just give me the valet ticket, and I’ll park my own bike, thank you very fucking much.