Page 12 of A Man of Wealth

“I suppose,” I admit begrudgingly.

“What do you suggest we do, then?” He raises a valid point, and I have no idea what our next step should be.

“Well, let me think for a minute.” I go back to tapping my finger until his hand releases from my thigh and covers my hand, stilling it.

I glance over at him. He’s watching me intently. “Has anyone ever told you that you are wound very tight?”

“More than once,” I retort.

“Well, then, maybe you should do something about that before you give yourself a coronary.”

“Maybe you should worry about yourself.”

He grins. “Don’t worry, I have plenty of ways to relieve stress.”

I huff and roll my eyes at his childish comment. Men.

“Jared,” he states.

“What?” I ask, my brows knitting together in confusion.

“Jared Pallin, maybe…if we could just get some intel, we could narrow the window down to an arrival date. If I knew the date, it makes our search…plausible,” he muses as he brings his thumb and forefinger up to stroke his beard. My brain fragments, part of it following his chain of logic while the other is mesmerized with his facial hair and wanting to know how scratchy it would feel against the inside of my thighs.

“We could go to the pharmaceutical association gala…” I offer as I try to remember Jared’s schedule over the next week.

“When’s the gala?” he asks.

“This weekend.”

“Why don’t you just go solo?”

I look at him and tip my head a bit, as if to say, figure it out, buddy.

He smacks his forehead. “Let me guess, you can’t get in without me?”

I nod and smile sheepishly.

“Am I going to get crucified if I roll up with you on my arm?” His question is a fair one.

I shrug. “Probably not, although it may raise some eyebrows.”

“Great, just what I need right now, more unwanted attention.”

I lean back in the seat. “It’s just an idea.”

“Right, just an idea,” he grumbles as he looks at the shipping yard once more. “Let’s head back. There’s nothing we can do tonight, knowing what we know now.”

I can’t say he’s wrong. If it’s in a refrigerated container, we could spend all night here and still not find it.

I sigh and put the car in reverse as I start back toward the road.

“Disappointed that our adventure didn’t pan out for you?”

“No, and yes,” I admit as I steer us back to I-95. I glance in my rearview mirror and see a car following us. I turn and it turns. I turn again and it turns. I do this several more times.

“You just missed the exit,” Conner states as he points toward the sign.

“We’re being followed,” I explain.

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