Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
We catch each other’s eyes in the reflection of the rearview mirror. I know he sees right through me by how his shoulders shake with laughter. He’s kind enough not to say anything about it, though. Instead, he asks, “You sure you want to return to the hotel? Loch won’t need me until this evening, so I can drive you anywhere you want to go. The city is at your fingertips.”
We pass a clothing store, and that gives me an idea. “Hey, Brady? Will you take me to Bergdorf’s?”
“You got it, Tues.”
“I’m so sorry.” A lady dressed in a bright-fuchsia pantsuit and her red hair pinned in curls on her head rushes into the personal shopping area where I’ve been waiting. “I had a mother of the bride melting down in the dressing room in ladies’ underwear. Crisis averted, and she’s off to the wedding.”
“That’s good.”
“Very good. Sixteen months of demands, and she’s finally satisfied.” She sits in the chair next to mine and says, “I’m Kelly. I hear you’re looking for a dress for dinner tonight?”
“Yes. Nothing over the top.”
“Too bad. Over the top is my specialty.” She laughs at her joke and stands. “I’m kidding. Come on, let’s get to shopping.”
We walk to the sales floor, and she leads me straight to the floor-length gowns. “I’m thinking this is the over the top you’re referring to. So let’s cut through to another special section, and you can tell me about your date.”
“Actually, you may know him.” That pulls her eyes back to me. “Loch Westcott. He ordered something for me yester—”
“Ah, yes. Mr. Wescott. We’ve never met, but he’s ordered a few things over the years.” She whispers, “I once googled him. He’s very handsome.”
“He is.”
She stops to look me up and down over a rack where the dresses use less material than a handkerchief. “I knew I recognized the name. You’re Tuesday. Tuesday Westcott. I didn’t know he was married.”
“Oh, we’re not… Well, he’s not.” I don’t know why I say this. I know I’m not married. I would surely feel differently—like I was missing half my soul—but I don’t feel that at all. “What I mean is we happen to have the same last name, but we’re not married.”
She stares at me as if I lost her somewhere in that conversation but then picks up right where we left off. “There’s a new selection of dresses on the back wall. They’re perfect for your figure, and from what I know from Mr. Westcott, something he would like.”
Something he would like?
This might not have been a great idea. This was supposed to be fun. I didn’t count on feeling jealous. I wonder if I was jealous in my former life since I seem to be in this one. “Has he sent gifts to a lot of women?”
“Only a few over the years.” She casually flips through the hangers as if I’m not hanging on her every word. Only a few women . . .
My heart sinks, though I have no right to be jealous. As I think about how he stumbled over the introduction to his assistant, a seed of doubt is planted right next to where my heart buried itself in the pit of my stomach.
I can be jealous, or I can be proactive. I choose the latter because two can play this game. “What do you have in blue?”
His personal shopper had no problem charging Loch’s card on file for all the things we picked out, especially considering her commission. But I hesitated. It may have been a grand plan when I concocted it, but I don’t want to be beholden to someone else for anything, much less financially.
But I have no other options.
Brady offers to help me carry the bags, but I load my arms so he doesn’t have to park the SUV. I dragged him around town with me, and we even grabbed lunch in the Escalade. After being sick earlier, that hoagie hit the spot.
But he’s sacrificed enough of his day. The bags aren’t heavy. They are just awkward. I still manage to make it to my room with only one incident. I hear the valet will heal just fine now that he’s been bandaged. Who knew they made the corners of the bags so pointy sharp?
Well, Craig knows now. Lesson learned.
In the room, I unload my goodies and run a bath. Stripping off my outfit, I put it in the bag with my skirt for laundry pickup tomorrow. Every action is a calculated attempt not to check my phone. I’ve been successful most of the day, but it’s just past four, and I’ve not had one call or text from the detective. How is that possible?
It’s been forty-eight hours since I went missing, and I’m starting to think this might be it. What the hell? Why is no one looking for me? Is the universe being for real right now? Not one person in the world cares about me?