Page 73 of Beauty and the Boss Man

Chapter Thirty-one

Romy

Itoss my suitcase down as I enter my apartment. I’ve always loved my quaint little home, but now, it seems much more empty and cold than when I left.

I tell myself that it’s because I haven’t had a moment alone in the past seven days. People have constantly surrounded me.

Yes, that’s what I tell myself while ignoring the nagging in my voice, saying it’s just one person in particular that I miss.

Even this morning, Aiden was wonderful to me. Before we boarded the plane, he stopped and kissed me one final time.

He said he had to savor one last kiss before we left paradise.

Have I mentioned how perfect he is?

He insisted on driving me home since his truck was parked at the airport. It was a quiet ride, but he didn’t make it uncomfortable.

When he stopped in front of my apartment building, it took every ounce of my willpower to be able to step out of the vehicle and walk inside.

Before we went on this trip, I thought I was happy with my life. Now, it seems somewhat…lacking.

I let out a loud sigh even though there’s no one around to hear it. Even in my thoughts, I sound ridiculous.

I just need a couple of days, and I’ll feel normal.

Right?

I mean, I have to. There’s no other option. I still have to work with this man.

I just need time. They say time heals all wounds—or some sort of bullshit like that.

Walking further into the apartment, I see a brown envelope sitting on my small kitchen table. The pit in my stomach starts to come back with full force.

I can’t avoid its contents forever, but I will avoid them a bit longer while I take a shower.

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I spend way longer than I should under the hot spray of the showerhead. I stay in there until the hot water turns frigid. I think I was hoping it would wash away the funk I’m in.

Didn’t work.

So, I pour a glass of wine, hoping for a better result. Once I have my overly full glass, I take a seat on the couch, and my fingers pry open the top flap of the envelope.

I spend the next hour going through all the paperwork, trying to make sense of all the legal jargon.

If I understand it correctly, the gist is that my father is now being charged with crimes regarding all of the offshore accounts. But I don’t know what any of this has to do with me—aside from the accounts being in my name.

Okay, that looks bad.

Along with the paperwork in the envelope, there’s a business card.

FBI AGENT TOM CARLSON

Before the effects of my wine have worn off, I grab my phone and punch in the numbers that are printed on the small white card. I twirl it between my fingers as the phone rings.

On the third ring, I hear, “Agent Carlson.”

“Uhm, hi,” I stammer. “This is Romy Sinclair. You left some paperwork for me.”

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