Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
To me, he’s been nothing but kind, considerate, and thoughtful. I’ve found him to be wildly intelligent, well-mannered, and respectful. But, to the rest of the world, he’s everything but those things. That can be very confusing.
“I talked to him last night.” I cross my arms protectively over my midsection. “He said he had court this morning but was upbeat about it. He seemed certain things would go his way.”
“This isn’t his first rodeo with the law, sweet pea. He knows what he’s doing. And he has a hell of a good troop of attorneys around him. He’s in good hands.”
I hum, not convinced by Burt’s words. But what do I know? It is my first rodeo.
“Do you know what bothers me the most about this whole thing?” I ask, facing Burt again.
His forehead wrinkles, but he says nothing.
“I hate that you’re the only one who gives him the benefit of the doubt.” I take my seat again. “It’s probably because I’ve only known him for a year and a half, and I’m not exactly well versed in the recycling business or really understand money laundering. But I believe him when he says he’s innocent.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’m foolish to admit that out loud because I’ve read the reports in the papers and online. The case against my father for laundering money for the Magne, a rising cartel based in the Upper Midwest, is strong. He looks as guilty as sin. Logic says he’s guilty, too. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to think I’m the child of a man that dirty, but when he tells me he’s innocent, I don’t think he’s lying. Even if I hate admitting that because I know I sound naive. And even though I know liars are really good at pretending they’re not one.
“Then you believe him,” Burt says. “But please be safe. Regardless of whether he’s guilty or not, the man has connections. He has business dealings. His industry isn’t filled with nuns and holy water, you know?”
I give him a half grin.
Burt sighs, laying his fork on the edge of his plate. “You didn’t eat your celebration cake.”
“I know. I’ll eat it after my shower. I have five miles of sweat on me, and I’m beginning to stink.”
I glance down at my phone.
Freddy: Dammit, Dahlia. I just want to talk to you. I need you, baby. I can’t live without you. You know that. You’re my entire world.
Right.
“Promise?” Burt asks.
“Promise.”
We clean up quietly. Burt carefully places my cake in the refrigerator and throws away our garbage. I wipe down the table.
“Thanks for dinner, sweet pea,” Burt says. “Can I do anything for you?”
“I’m good. Your presence was all I needed.”
He chuckles, tossing up a wave, and lets himself out.
I pick my phone up off the table, intending to shove it in my pocket on my way upstairs. But as I turn to the staircase, I stop and glance at the screen.
A slow smile stretches across my lips.
Troy: I just got a confirmation text from Dr. Manning’s office.
I bang out my response.
Me: I’m glad that worked out.
Troy: Settle down.
Me:
Troy: You abuse emoji.
I snort. Whatever.
Me: How else will you know what my face is doing? Texts are so easily misconstrued. I like my messages to feel personal and clear.
Troy: Trust me. I know what your face is doing.
Me: Well, I can’t trust you because I can’t read your face. You could be typing that angrily or cheekily or flatly or conversationally. How am I supposed to know?
Troy: What did people do before emoji?
Me: Lived very boring, muted lives.
Troy: Yet they survived.
I laugh.
Me: There will come a day, Mr. Castelli, when you use an emoji.
Troy: Unlikely. What time does my truck go into the shop tomorrow?
I lean against the wall, smiling as I type.
Me: By nine. That’s on your calendar, you know.
Troy: Yes. It’s on my calendar for midnight. My assistant’s getting rusty.
Me:
Troy: My assistant’s many things. Overworked is not one of them.
Me: I beg to differ. But you’re right when you say I’m many things. I’m basically a Renaissance woman.
Troy: Have you been drinking?
Me: Not yet. Have you?
Troy: It’s Monday.
Me: And your point …
Troy: I’ll see you tomorrow.
“I’ll be looking forward to it, Mr. Castelli.”
Me: Can’t tell if that’s a threat or a promise.
Troy: That will give you something to ponder.
Me: See you tomorrow. Good night.
Troy: Good night.
I smile all the way up the stairs.
Chapter Four
Troy
“She specifically requests you.”
I growl, slipping off my jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair in the foyer. My conversation with Ford earlier echoes through my brain as I walk down the hallway.
“If I do that, you’re taking option two.”
“Fuck,” I mumble, removing my shirt and tie, and throwing them like a football into the laundry room as I pass. They fall unceremoniously into the center of the basket next to the washer.