Damn, it was almost like . . . he knew I was listening? Yup, that had to be it. He wasn’t naming anything.

“Why so cagey . . . ah, did I interrupt you and a lady friend? My apologies, I understood that you had sworn off women. Evil creatures that they are.” The “guest” laughed, and I frowned. Evil? Another slam of a hand on that table. “I am not asking now. I am telling. Make me the item. One week, or I will make your life uncomfortable. My overseer is not a patient soul. You know this.”

Silence from Crash for a full minute. “It can’t be made in a week, and you know it.”

Was he giving in to this a-hole’s demands?

“How long will it take?”

Silence again. “Three months. Certain cycles have to be considered in the making of it, you know that.”

The other voice let out a huff. “Fine. Here is your down payment for the crucible.”

Oh, so that’s what it was? Why would it take three months? My curiosity was at its height, which was why I was slow on the uptake of what happened next.

There was a heavy thud and then the sound of footsteps leaving the space. No, not leaving, heading my way. Toward the bedroom.

Shit!

Why did I get the feeling that if I got caught now, my job at the Hollows Group would never happen? Because this person would kill me for overhearing their business with Crash. I dropped my bag and ripped off my clothes, flinging them onto the floor as I stumbled toward the bed, snagging a thick blanket bunched up at the foot of the bed as if it had been too hot for anything but a sheet.

I grabbed the cover, yanked it up and slid under it, closing my eyes as the door creaked open. I fought to keep my breathing slow and even—not an easy feat after that little sprint across the room. There was an upside: Crash’s leftover warmth and smell wrapped around me. Damn, I’d take that any time. I all but sunk into the mattress with a heavy sigh.

Footsteps came closer, then stopped beside me. I feigned sleep. “Crash, I’m disappointed,” the other man said, not bothering to keep his voice quiet. As if he didn’t care if he woke me.

“What?” Crash’s voice was wary. He was no doubt wondering what the hell I was doing in his bed.

“She’s rather old and . . . less hardened than I would have thought you’d choose to break your fast with. Soft. Feminine.”

Old? I was forty-one! Not a hundred and three!

And soft? Some men liked . . .

“I like a woman with some curves on her,” Crash said. “I like to have something to hold onto in the bedroom.”

Jaysus lord in heaven, my heart rate shot through the roof. Don’t start panting. That would give me away.