Page 41 of Stealth Mission

I hold up my phone with my finger hovering over the buttons. “Three. Two…”

Thank god, he leaves.

Dust rises in the wake as he tears off toward the main road. I stare for a long time.

A sick feeling rolls through me. Someone hired a surveyor to assess my land. My farm.

Fuming, I stomp to my truck and drive to the house. I’m still hot around the collar when I jerk open my closet.

Damn, I must be setting a record—wearing a dress two days in a row. Not just two days, but three dresses counting last night.

I glance at the pile of silk on the floor. The strap broke when Walt shoved me onto the floor. The frayed end is lying against the wood.

I really liked that dress.

But after last night… nope.

I’ll never be able to look at it and not think of Sylvester bullying me and the explosion.

With a hiss, I grab it up and toss it in the wastebasket.

My phone rings. Screeching, I fist my hair. “What now?”

Dread lands in my stomach like a ten pound rock.

“Oh god. Can’t I get a freaking break?”

As drop onto the bed, I hit Accept. “Yes, father.”

Barf.

“Marianna. Meet me at Bueno Sol in half an hour. We need to talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“Clear your schedule.”

Click.

Argh!

I punch my pillow. This has to stop. I’m really going to let him have it today.

Forty-five minutes later, I stride across into the restaurant patio.

My eyes struggle to adjust even though the building is half open-air. For a beat, I’m disoriented. But the tile is smooth below the leather sole of my sandals as I move into the familiar space.

I could probably navigate with my eyes closed because I’ve been haunting Bueno Sol my entire life. The place smells the same—delicious.

It pretty much looks the same as it did when I was a child. It’s back in fashion again with people who love vintage memorabilia.

I brush my hair over my shoulder as I approach the bar. “Hello, Peter.”

Knowing my usual drink order, he’s already got a glistening cup full of ice water on the bar for me by the time I cross from the door to his usual perch. His domain is the narrow strip of real estate in front of the brightly colored whisky and tequila bottles.

“Good day, Marianna.”

I normally love to chat with Peter, but with everything that’s going on today, my mood is one notch above bitch. But of all people, Peter doesn’t deserve my crap attitude.