Page 51 of The Woman at the Docks (Grassi Framily)
They were similarly beautiful, yes, alike enough that they had to be sisters, even if I thought Romy was the standout, that her sister's eyes were a little cold, lacking the liveliness I saw in Romy's.
My hand reached out toward the passenger seat as a realization hit me.
We'd all been looking all over town. We'd been bribing desk clerks to give us information. We'd been asking servers at all-night diners.
But we hadn't fucking called her.
"Christ," I hissed, hitting the dial button, waiting.
Right to voicemail.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On a sigh, I ended the last call, bringing up a text instead. She could avoid a call. But she would see a text, she would think on it, which might give me an in if I sent a follow-up one eventually.
If she wasn't playing us—playing me, in particular—then a couple of carefully-worded texts offering to hear her concerns out, to meet her halfway, might get through to her.
Then, hopefully, things could be ironed out.
I wouldn't admit it out loud—mostly for fear that I might be proven wrong—but I wanted to be right, I wanted her to be on the up-and-up. I wanted her back in the house. No, not even the rental house. My house. I wanted her in my house. I wanted her in my bed. I wanted a fuckuva lot considering I'd only known the woman a couple of days.
I shot off the text.
I went home.
I talked to my men.
I shot off the second text.
And then I caught a couple hours of sleep.
To have my subconscious plagued with images of her.
Not just hands on skin, and the sound of her voice when I slipped inside her.
No.
My mind was going deeper.
A home.
A ring.
A horde of little kids at our feet.
I woke up with an unfamiliar ache in my chest, strong enough for my hand to rub there, trying to ease the sensation.
It was a solid moment or two before I remembered the texts.
I scrambled for my phone, unlocking it, scrolling through a couple vague texts from my men.
And then there it was.
A text from Romy.
