Page 130 of What's Left of Us

She sets the scarf beside her. “What are you talking about?”

I gesture toward the getup she’s in. “You’re clearly wearing a disguise.”

She slowly undoes the buttons of her jacket to reveal the low-cut shirt underneath. I’m surprised Luca let her walk out looking like that.

“Are you done ogling my boobs?” she asks, taking my coffee and wrapping her unpainted lips around the edge for a sip.

She hates coffee, especially the way I drink it. Not that you’d know it by the smirk she offers as she sets it down and uses her manicured nail to push it toward me.

“I was hoping to see that you popped your wonder bra,” I remark casually, finally meeting her eyes. They’re not painted with makeup, her lashes aren’t pristine and curled, and there’s no liner that makes her amber eyes brighter like I’m used to.

The girl sitting across from me reminds me of the version who I fell in love with.

“Are you saying I’m prickly?”

“Like hugging a cactus these days,” I deadpan.

Humming, she drapes her coat in the spot beside her. “I seem to recall a time when you liked my prickly personality.”

Her eyes pan over to me, scanning my face. God only knows what she sees. I haven’t slept more than three hours in weeks and have had approximately two coffee pots worth of coffee with very little food with any nutritional value to soak it up with.

My eyes go back to her hair. “Back to your roots?”

Her hands go to the tips of the hair framing her face. “Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. The blond was a lot to keep up with.”

And I’m sure her father disapproved of the color. “I’m the last person you should be preaching to about sacrifices, Georgia.”

Her eyes lower to the table.

Scrubbing a hand down my tired face, I take a long sip of coffee and set it down. “You wanted to talk.”

“I guess the time for pleasantries is behind us,” she mumbles, staring at the glass of water I had Sandy pour for her. She reaches for it and wraps those long, lean fingers around the condensation-covered cup. “I overheard a conversation my father was having with somebody over the phone. Don’t ask me who because I don’t know. But he told the person that he knew they needed to take care of Michael Welsh before he talked more.”

My shoulders square.

She trails her finger up and down the glass, making insignificant pictures in the condensation and not paying me any mind. “You used to talk about Michael Welsh a lot, so I know you know him.”

When she picks her head up, she sees me staring at her. “Why are you telling me this?”

The eyes lacking makeup soften. “Whoever was on the other end of the phone wasn’t giving him any other options. He’s been paranoid. Angry. He fired three of his seasoned employees that were with him for decades at The Del Rossi Group. Leani is…”Her throat bobs. “I haven’t seen her so scared before. I go there to make sure she’s okay, but she’s not.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it? I’ve told you plenty of times before that it was only a matter of time before he dug himself into a hole he couldn’t get out of. I gave Leani the numbers she needed to call. I can’t force somebody to file a complaint.”

“I…” She stops herself, takes a deep breath, and releases the glass. “I wasn’t asking you to do that. I’m not asking you to help him or even her. I’m asking you to helpme.”

All I can do is stare at her. She acts like there’s a difference between the two, but I know there isn’t. Helping her would be helping Nikolas Del Rossi, and I have no intention of doing that.

“I can’t do that, Peaches.”

The nickname has her eyes darting upward in surprise. “Can’t or won’t?”

Sighing, I say, “Georgia—” I close my eyes and count to three, remembering we’re in a public place. “I need you to be reasonable. You’re asking a lot of me about something you knew I wouldn’t be on board about. I have no reason to help either of you after what you’ve done.”

Her eyes remain locked on the water, not giving me an ounce of attention. It’s better that way. Those eyes make me do stupid things, and I can’t afford to make any more dumb decisions in my life.

The next time she speaks, her tone is nearly inaudible. “I thought I could help him.” Her tongue drags across her lips to wet them before her shoulders slouch. “I wanted to help him before it was too late. He may not be a good man, but he’ll always be my father.”

Her admission is one I’ve been waiting to hear for a long time. I knew she loved him, even when he gave her every reason not to. She was still there. Still trying. Still reaching out a helpinghand for somebody who deserved every bad thing that came his way.

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