Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Hello and everything that followed was perfect. I didn’t want to ruin perfect with a bad goodbye.
—Lori
I toss the damn note on the bed and consider my options for all of thirty seconds before walking back to the bathroom and picking up my phone. I punch in my assistant’s number. “Hey, boss,” Ashley answers, always quick on the draw and an asset I’ll miss when I start calling New York City home. “Don’t tell me,” she continues, “you need your flight moved.”
“Actually, no,” I say, more motivated than ever to wrap up things back south before I move north. “I need you to find an attorney for me.”
“Did you kill someone and it’s not made the news yet?”
“She practices in New York City,” I say, ignoring the joke, “and her name is Lori. Brunette. Pretty. Late twenties.”
“That’s all you have for me to go on?”
“How many brunette, attorneys named Lori can work in New York City?” I ask, and I don’t wait for an answer. “Get me photos of any hits you find. Send them to my email and text me when you do. This is urgent.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’m on it as soon as I get to the office.”
“Now,” I say. “I’ll buy you that damn Gucci purse you’re always talking about if you find her. Hell, I’ll buy you two. I need those photos before I leave for the airport.”
“You can’t miss your flight,” she warns, as if she knows that’s exactly what I’m considering, which is to push back my flight. “You’re in chambers with Judge Conners at four o’clock and he’s unforgiving.”
And capable of granting my client, an innocent man who had the wrong attorney before me, a new trial. She’s right. I can’t miss my flight. If I get the answer my client deserves, I’ll continue living between cities for months on end, but I can’t walk away from him or Lori.
“Cole,” she warns when I haven’t replied. “You land at two. There is no give here unless you go private, and you’ll miss your plane before I can confirm I can make that happen this late in the game.”
Game.
This isn’t a game, but last night was, and more than I knew. “Get me those photos,” I say and remembering the note I add, “She spells her name L-O-R-I.”
“Who is this woman?” she says, clearly baffled by the limited information behind my order.
“Just find her,” I say, and disconnect the line, setting the phone down and pressing my hands to the counter. Fuck. I should have kept eyes on her. I knew she was running, but she didn’t want to. She was afraid of something. I needed more time to get her past whatever it was. I’m going to get that time. I’m going to make sure of it.
I tear away the towel, and return to the bedroom, making fast work of getting dressed, but I don’t bother to pack. I’m keeping the room another few weeks. I’ll be back, and sooner than planned. I’m about to exit the bedroom when I walk back to the bed and grab the note Lori left for me. I read it again, and grimace with the “perfect hello” she didn’t want to ruin with a “bad goodbye.”
“All right then,” I murmur. “We won’t say goodbye, but we damn sure will say hello again.” I stuff the note in my pocket and head for the door. I already have a car service waiting on me downstairs, and waste no time heading that direction.
A short elevator ride later, I’m street-side and I climb into the backseat of the car, directing the driver to the corner where I met Lori, and have him pull to the curb. I get out with the insane idea I might actually see her. I walk to the exact spot where I ran into her. I walk the whole damn sidewalk, left and right, and a block in either direction, and of course, she’s not here, there, or anywhere. I head back to the car and slide into the backseat. “Airport as planned,” I order the driver when my cell phone buzzes with a text: Photos in your inbox, but there are only two Loris who spell their name as you indicated, and none fit the description you gave me. I included all other spellings and there is only one possibility, but she is thirty-two.
I switch to my email and open the file, scanning the photos. My Lori is not in the photos. This makes no sense. I think back to our conversations. Holy Hell. She never actually confirmed she was an attorney. I have a name and nothing more.
Lori
“What’s your dirty secret?”
The question is delivered by Daniel, a handsome, familiar man, in an expensive suit, from the other side of the coffee bar counter; the side without the register, which I know far more intimately than him.