Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Hey. Looks like you could use this.”
I hesitate to take it, but when he tilts it in my direction again, I oblige. What is he even doing here?
And more importantly, how did he know I was here?
“I texted you that I was coming.” He stuffs his hand into the pocket of his slacks. “Did you not get it?”
“I haven’t had the chance to look at my phone,” I lie easily and take a drink. “Why are you here?”
“Making an appearance as head member of the PD. You know, big, important stuff.” Marco winks at me and gestures toward his suit. “Do I look the part?”
He’s wearing a fitted navy suit and leather shoes, his silver Tissot shining in the light. I bought him all those things for his birthday last year. I had the suit and shoes imported from an Italian shop owned by a family friend and personally fitted at my father’s tailor. The watch was his Christmas gift. I wanted to give him something more expensive, but he flat out denied my first suggestion of a TAG watch.
Normally, my heart would skip a beat seeing him so dressed up. His dark hair is slicked back, he’s clean-shaven, and his police badge hangs from a clip on his front pocket. He looks like he stepped out of those yearly “Sexy Policeman” calendars.
And yet I feel… nothing.
I ignore this by taking another sip of my champagne.
“You dress up nicely.” I set down the alcohol. “I didn’t know the police sponsored such events.”
“They usually don’t, but it’ll look good on our record. Plus, knowing you’d be here is an added bonus.”
Marco is all smiles, but a strange feeling blooms in my stomach that I can’t place. The champagne isn’t sitting right, and I tap my fingers against the top of the table next to my flute. Something itches at my brain and tells me to go, but I force it away. It’s just Marco. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had time to really process our fight, and I’m not ready to talk it out so publicly. But still… my intuition is on high alert, which means something isn’t right.
“How did you know I would be here?” I question slowly.
Marco pauses mid-drink and blinks at me in confusion. “You mentioned it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” He sets down his drink next to mine and leans his elbow on the table. “When we met for lunch. You know, before the fight.”
I try to think back on what we talked about before Mason’s death came up, but I draw a blank. The only thing I remember is how he shot me down so quickly and told me I’m only as good as my name. These auctions are my little secret to keep. Nobody knows about them in detail, not even Marco. I wouldn’t have told him… right? But maybe I did. Ever since Mason’s death, I’ve been so focused on solving it that my mind has been fuzzy with other matters.
“Did I?” I ask more to myself than him.
Marco answers anyway with a toothy grin. “You did, right before our fight.” He doesn’t give me time to think back before he sighs. “Listen, Fiora, I know you’ve been avoiding me. I mean, I’d avoid me, too. What I said was stupid. I was a jerk. Can you forgive me?”
I hesitate, glancing to my left toward the front doors where Levanta keeps talking with the photographer. No one is close enough to hear our conversation, but I’m on edge anyway. I don’t want to discuss this here, but I feel trapped between the way Marco half-blocks a possible exit and his apologetic smile. I haven’t thought about what I want to say to him.
“You know I don’t think that about you,” Marco continues in my silence. He taps the bottom of my chin with a finger and smiles. “So, could you cut me a break? I miss you. I miss us. We haven’t fought like this before, and I’m going crazy here. I have your favorite florist on speed dial and a truck load of Ferrero Rocher waiting as an apology.”
“Ferrero Rocher isn’t my favorite,” I answer with a frown. He should know that.
“Yeah, but you can’t get Venchi Chocolates in town.” Marco leans in. “But I’ll fly to Italy and buy you some if it means you’ll forgive me.”
My head is too jumbled to formulate a response. I want to say that he could buy Venchi Chocolates at a little shop in Seattle, but the chocolates aren’t the issue here. Tonight was supposed to be a fun, relaxing night for me to get away from all my stress, and one of the worst cases just strolled up to hand me a drink. I turn away from the door to stare at the items for auction across the room. I’m so close to snapping but need to keep appearances. I don’t want “Fiora Godwin Blows Up and Ruins Charity Event!” all over the internet tomorrow.