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Pre-emptive Strike
“Rachel, you’d probably feel better if you ate something,” Dex said quietly, reaching for his cup of espresso.
Ignoring him, she glanced at her watch and scowled, then sat up straighter and craned her neck, skimming the people at the other tables in the hotel’s restaurant. “Where are they? You said they’re usually down here for breakfast by seven. It’s seven fifty-five.”
Sighing heavily, Dex used the time it took him to set his cup down to rattle off a mental ten-count. “The operative word was ‘usually’, Rachel. If I knew where they were, I wouldn’t be here having my meal ruined by your frenzied tapping and annoyed huffing. Maybe they came earlier.”
“We were down here at quarter after six!”
Not willingly, he thought, but remained silent. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes slowly, his jaw clenched. “Fine. Maybe they’re late. Maybe they’re having breakfast somewhere else or getting room service. There’s not a way for me to answer your question or I
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