Page 55 of The Love Bandits

“And you still don’t have it?”

In my mind’s eye, he’s in his apartment in New York, a place I’ve been before. But that’s not where he is right now. If he were, then I’d be putting my efforts toward busting my brother out, not stealing this necklace I don’t want. But Roark’s smarter than that. He’s bunking out in his secret location, the one he never revealed to us.

Ryan might know where it is now, a thought that makes my heart thump even faster. Because if he knows what he’s not supposed to, he might lose more than a hand.

“I’m not angling to get arrested,” I say tightly, not wanting to give him even the slightest hint about what actually went down tonight. “These things take time. You’re the one who told me that.”

He makes a harsh sound that’s not even nearly a laugh. “If it takes longer than two weeks, your brother’s going to pay. I figure it’s a hand for stealing, and then we have room and board to settle.”

“Don’t forget your goons. I’m sure they don’t come cheap.”

“You being cute?”

“I can hardly help it,” I say, trying to get him to laugh or at least tone down the aggression. I usually can. One might even say it’s a talent of mine, but he’s been on edge lately, pumped up—as if Ryan has thrown him for a loop. Maybe he senses he’s losing us, his dream team, and he’s ready to go to desperate measures to keep that from happening. Even if he has to destroy us in the process.

He takes a ragged breath, then says, “What kind of security did the owner have?”

Someone knocks lightly on my door. I back away from it, because I definitely don’t want him knowing I’m around other people. Especially since I’m pretty damn sure it’s Lainey knocking on that door.

“An alarm. A lock box,” I say calmly, trying to sound bored. “It shouldn’t be a problem, but I need to figure out an easy path in and out.”

He snorts. “Do it. Two weeks.”

He hangs up, and I throw the phone onto the bed, giving it the finger. It does nothing for me, unfortunately. When I open the door, two full trash bags are sitting there, but there’s no sign of Lainey.

I pull the bags inside and go through them like a mad man, heart thumping, sorting through my Jake Jeffries laptop and all the clothes—a mixture of mine and the man I made—before I find them. My sketchbooks. My pencils. And the bag from beneath the floorboards, tucked into the bottom. There’s no knowing whether she looked.

So I tuck the little bag away and start stuffing my things into the drawers of the old dresser in the room.

Maybe I’m losing my mind, because my things smell like Elaine. Like spicy jasmine. And I don’t mind. Ilikebreathing her in.

I lie in my bed for fifteen or maybe twenty minutes, but I can’t settle. It’s that door, closed but not locked. It’s Elaine, tucked into her own room farther down the hall.

Did she look in the bag from beneath the floorboards?

If so, does she think I’m some kind of weirdo?

I nearly laugh aloud at that thought—she already thinks the worst of me. What could it possibly matter?

Finally, I heave afuck itsigh and get up, testing the door as if it might have magically locked itself after the last time I shut it. A sigh of relief gusts from me when it opens easily, without even a creak of the hinges.

I head for the stairs, figuring maybe I’ll get another of those cookies or…

But I hear the TV, the volume on low, and when I reach the top of the steps, I can see Elaine nestled on the couch, the cat curled into her chest.

It’s a pretty picture. Peaceful. And I feel a twist inside of my chest—until she jolts into an upright position, her eyes pinned on me. The displaced cat yowls and shoots each of us a look of death.

But as I make my way down the steps, it’s Elaine’s eyes I feel on me.

“Were you thinking you’d escape?” she asks in an undertone when I reach the bottom.

“Wouldn’t have asked you to grab that stuff if it didn’t mean something to me,” I say, showing her my empty hands. “I can’t sleep.”

She pauses, as if deciding something, then says, “Me neither,” and nods to the screen. “You can stay and watchMatchmaking Small Town Americawith me, but no smartass comments. I enjoy dating shows. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying dating shows.”

I lower down next to her. “No, but I live for smartass comments.”

To my amusement, she plants a large pillow between us. “And no touching.”

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