Chapter 22 #2
His hair is soft through my fingers, his body hard beneath me, and his hand is creeping higher up my leg—but then it stops.
I hold my breath, but his is ragged and quick against my kiss-dampened skin.
Don’t stop.
He gently pushes me back before releasing his grip on my dress.
He doesn’t have to say anything. It’s in the shape of his shoulders, the slow exhale of breath. I drop my hands from him, already knowing what’s coming but still stupidly hopeful.
“I’m not going to fuck you, Ms. Gallo.” His voice has that same cold tone he used to use with me, but even he can’t tamp down the heat in his eyes before he looks away, his jaw set.
My heart sinks, but as it does, it kicks my defense mechanisms back into place. “I don’t recall asking you to,” I snap. My eyes feel hot, the tears of rejection slow on the build-up.
“Then why are you on my lap?” he asks in pointed dismissal.
I stand up, smoothing out my dress. “You’re in my chair, sweetheart. Care to explain why you’re sucking jam off my tits?”
“No.” He stands up and brushes past me. “Your pasta salad is in the chiller in the kitchen, and your five pastries are in the box on the file cabinet.”
And then he’s gone, out the door.
Asshole.
I drop into the chair and take a deep breath, willing the tears to fuck off. Rejection always sucks, but when he wants me? When I know he feels something too? It hurts more than I thought it would.
One minute—that’s all I’m giving myself for self-pity.
He’s too scared to see what we could be. It’s not like I’m asking for forever.
But maybe I’d want forever anyway.
At least the Gallo relationship curse got to me early this time. Can I feel better about that?
Apparently not.
Another deep breath. I get to my feet, square my shoulders, and leave the office. I’m not letting this knock me down.
I run into Clay in the kitchen, standing next to the running dishwasher, his arms crossed as he stares at it like any second he’s expecting it to gush water all over the place.
“You got someone in to fix it?” he asks when he notices me.
Oh, right. I forgot I’d told him it was broken. “Fixed it myself,” I say with a casual shrug.
He rubs a hand over his mouth, like he’s still tasting blackberries off my skin. From the disgruntled look on his face, it’s a possibility. I leave him in the kitchen, scowling at the dishwasher.
For the rest of the night, I put on a show, laughing and flirting with locals. When Clay looks at me—and I know he does—he might see through to the hurt, but no one else will.
Louisa Gallo has landed on her feet again. So what if her thieving ex is back in town? So what if the man she’s fallen for brushed her off?
On. My. Feet.
Rita would be proud.
That is not true. Rita would lean against the bar and shake her head at me for being a damned fool in the first place.
Ford pulls me aside a little later to share the latest gossip. He’s heard rumors that Brett McCormick—scummy lawyer extraordinaire—either is or might soon be under investigation for fraud. A potentially forged will turned up in Pine Point a few months ago, apparently.
Which is bad news for Travis, who is undoubtedly tangled up in this mess, but since my cousin sold my bar out from under my feet, I don’t care.
At the end of the night, I slip out of the bar before Clay can offer to walk me to the camper. Before he can fail to make that offer.
It will get better. We’ll find a new normal, and soon he’ll be gone.
I walk over to the bar in the morning. Not because I want to see him or spend time with him, but because I want another look at the books. I want to make some plans and dream some dreams about what I could do with Gallo’s once Clay pays me to keep the money laundering a secret and leaves.
I round the corner, heading for the side door, but stop in my tracks. A denim-clad ass and a pair of legs are dangling from one of the bathroom windows. It isn’t Clay’s, and anyway, I can’t imagine why he’d go out a window when he has keys to all the doors.
There’s only one thing to do, so I step right up and slap it. Hard.
The man yells, wiggles, and drops back out the window.
And it’s Travis’s friend Reed.
“Why are you breaking into my bar?” I ask.
He glances around, hesitating. “I left my wallet.”
“Your wallet is in your back pocket.” I slapped his ass. I should know.
Also, ew. I wipe my palm on my pants.
He pats his back pocket. “Oh.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t explain himself. I don’t have time for this.
“Well?” I point at the screen, which is leaning against the wall. “Put that back.”
He snaps the screen back into the window, then shoots me an irritated look as he walks away.
Travis must have left something behind, but the only thing worth finding in Gallo’s is Clay’s ten million—and all it would take is a ladder to get in through the apartment window while Clay’s out.
Something tells me if I say, “Hey, you know that money you lied about? Well, it’s not safe where it is, but I have a place where no one will find it,” he’d throw it in that car and be out of the state by midnight.
He rejected me, but I’m not ready to say goodbye. I don’t want Reed getting his paws on that cash, either—whether he knows it’s there or finds it while he’s looking for something else.
Which means I have to move it. I can apologize later.
There’s a prohibition-era hidey hole, something of a cross between a large safe and a storm shelter, completely weather-proof, not far from Rita’s house.
My aunt never knew about it, or, if she did, she took the secret to her grave.
Travis doesn’t know about it either, or he’d have taken the moonshine and the old photos of men with guns and naked women.
I only found it by luck, but I replaced the lock with a sturdier one.
It’s a hell of a lot safer than under the bed.
I glance at the time on my phone. Clay could be at the grocery store for all I know, so I’ll have to move fast. I grab a roll of extra-strength garbage bags and a couple of boxes of beer coasters—some of the ones that Travis accidentally over-ordered—and let myself into the apartment.
My plan is a simple one. Replace the cash with the coasters, put the money in the doubled-up, heavy-duty garbage bags, and carry it outside.
Except that the cash is heavy, and I need to use more garbage bags than I’d anticipated.
It also takes a hell of a lot longer to bring it all down the stairs.
There’s no way I can carry it to the hidey hole, so I put it in the trunk of my Buick and waste nearly half an hour searching for the key to the gate that blocks the road.
I’m a sweaty, panicky mess by the time I find it, and while I drive the car as close as I can get it, I still have to make multiple trips, my arms shaking, to get all the cash safely stored away.
Not all the cash. I left the bag he’s actively laundering out of alone. It’s a risk leaving it behind, but Clay will notice if I take it.
It’s better this way. Eight million hidden safely away is better than nothing, should Reed—or Travis, because I doubt Reed is acting on his own—manage to get into the apartment.
Still, I feel shitty for doing this without Clay’s knowledge, even if it is for his own good.