Page 69 of The Witness

“Now, about that manual labor. Do I start with shampoo or body wash?” He nuzzled along my jawline. The sensation of pin picks from his scruffy cheek raised a new crop of goosebumps on my skin.

“Your choice. I’m not sure I have the strength to lift my arms.”

With little fanfare and much jostling, we managed to both get clean and dry. My shower was not built for two.

The combination of a couple of beers, a load of takeout, and one delicious orgasm was better than any prescription sleeping pill. We tumbled into my bed tangled together.

I couldn’t guess the last time I’d gone to bed so early. I was a night owl, up until well after midnight, even if I wasn’t working. It was a strange luxury to drift off to sleep with Michael at an hour when most people were still awake.

Too bad it didn’t last.

At two, I gave up. I extracted myself from his arms, pulled on a robe, and headed for my laptop on the kitchen island. There were a million thoughts running through my head and I needed to act on them before I lost focus.

Barefoot, I tiptoed across the house. I had to smother a laugh at the trail of clothing from the couch to the bedroom. That clean-up job would wait for tomorrow. Ditto on the takeout containers that littered the coffee table.

I filled a glass with water and placed it on the kitchen counter. Pulling my robe tight, I perched on the barstool in front of the soft glow of my laptop. Some of my best ideas came during stolen hours late at night or actually early in the morning. An entrepreneur never sleeps on a good idea.

I sent out emails to event planners I’d worked for in the past hoping to pick up a last-minute catering job for New Year's Eve. There had to be a pseudo celebrity somewhere in Miami withmoney to burn and no forethought who needed a TV chef for their party. The extra cash would be a great addition to my war chest.

Next, I drafted a press release to send to the local media about the “vandalism” at Viande. In Miami,if it bleeds it leadswas the mantra of most newsrooms, and I hoped arson, automatic weapons, and my broken heart would be gruesome enough to garner attention.

The last of my midnight ideas made me slightly nauseous: using my misfortune to beg for money. George, my general contractor, had given me a few preliminary numbers on repairs yesterday. The figures were staggering, and after our meeting later this morning, I was sure the figure would only grow.

I hated the idea of leveraging my social media accounts this way. My online presence was carefully curated. I’d built a large, loyal, and engaged base of fans that I nurtured with regular posts. Asking for money might damage my online reputation, but it could be my salvation.

I scrolled the feed from the last few months. Posts showed tantalizing glimpses into the build-out at Viande, food I’d made for events, and of course the fan favorite pictures of me doing everything in Miami from shopping at the farmers' market to walking the beach or making dinner.

These people were my fans. They’d been on this journey with me for years. Many since the first episodes of Food Truck Fabulous. It would be disingenuous to keep this from them. So, with a sigh and a few misgivings lingering in my gut, I got to work setting up a crowdfunding campaign and the social media posts to promote it.

When I finished, my eyes felt crusty with sleep and my backache had returned. I snapped my laptop closed and, as quietly as I left my bed, I crawled back in. Michael wrapped hisarms around me and dropped a sleepy kiss on the nape of my neck as we spooned like I had never been gone.

Chapter 31

Michael

Iwoke at my regular time, the wordsbe of valueringing in my ears. I dragged myself from Sabrina’s bed. Simon had been right. My goal: I would be so fucking valuable Sabrina would think I was priceless.

The first thing I tackled was the messes we’d created at her place. The trail of clothes, the takeout containers, and the wet towels in the bathroom. As I squeegeed water spots off the shower door, I reminisced about the night before. I’d never look at 1950s octagonal bathroom tile and not hear Sabrina’s cries of ecstasy in my head. Last night had been more fantastic than Cuba, and it’s well known that hotel sex is the gold standard.

I tidied up as quietly as possible, letting her sleep in; she obviously needed her rest. I left a note telling her I was headingto Viande next to the French press. If the thing didn’t scare the hell out of me, I’d have set it up with fresh grounds for her coffee.

I took a bottle of water and a protein bar from the kitchen for my breakfast. On the way out, I carefully reset the alarm system and texted the security monitor at the Smith Agency letting them know Sabrina was still at home… alone.

I paused with my hand on her front doorknob and reconsidered leaving her unguarded. Smith and Gunter had signed off on it in triplicate and the security system was state-of-the art. Her car was in the attached garage, and her drive to Viande was short and took her through the heart of the city where ambush or attack was highly unlikely.

As much as I liked watching her sleep, I would add more value working at the restaurant. With only a minimum of misgivings, I hopped on my bike and rolled out. After a quick stop home for clean clothes, I was on my way to the Design District well before morning rush hour kicked into high gear.

At Viande, I picked up where we left off yesterday, digging bullets out of walls and ceilings and tossing the stuff too damaged to repair. I only stopped long enough to grab food and coffee from a café down the street. I’d made good progress; the second collapsible dumpster was half full.

“Hello! Sabrina?” a man called as he walked inside the door I’d left propped open.

I turned to see a guy about my age with a cell phone on one side of his belt and a measuring tape on the other. No need to go for my gun. I checked my phone for the time and to make sure I’d not missed a call from Sabrina. Shit, it was ten. Where was she? Because her general contractor George was right on time.

“Hi. You must be George.” I approached, my hand extended.

“And you are?”

“Michael Steel, the Smith Agency. I’m helping Sabrina with everything.” I waved a hand at the interior of the building.

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