The Dirty Series 2(135)

“Of course.” He pulls his shirt on over his head, then finishes with socks. I watch him as he scans the room, looking for anything he might have left behind, and then he heads for the doorway.

I follow him out as he moves toward the front door.

“Wait.”

When he turns to me, I pull him down and kiss him, long and hard, and he kisses me back, but there’s a hint of reservation there that sends a chill down my spine.

What have I done?

“There’s one more thing,” I say, slipping on my shoes. Then I go back into the kitchen and open one of the cupboards.

When I get back to Ace, he’s put his shoes on and is waiting to leave.

“Will you come back and wait for me if I call?”

He pauses for a beat, then nods. “Yes.”

I drop my spare key into his hand. “Be ready.”

He doesn’t return my wicked grin.





Chapter Thirty-Four





Ace



Carolyn doesn’t call me on Sunday, or on Monday, although we exchange several text conversations. She’s completely wrapped up in the business with the boutique.

I walked by later on Sunday evening and she was still there with two of her employees. The glass had been swept into a pile on the edge of the sidewalk.

She didn’t see me, but I saw her. The compassion in her face was just as genuine as her voice had been on the phone when the first call came in. Just before I turned away, she finished speaking, and the three women turned toward the display racks together, Carolyn saying something that made them laugh.

How can she be so wonderful, yet clearly be hiding something from me?

On Monday, after I’ve returned from the office, I dial one of the Italian numbers. A man with a clean British accent answers the phone, announcing that I’ve reached a travel agency with one branch in Rome.

“I’m sorry. I’ve dialed the wrong number.”

Could it be that Carolyn is just planning an Italian vacation? Is that seriously what I’ve been worked up about all this time? The name of the travel agency doesn’t ring any bells. Why should it? I never used a travel agency when I lived in Italy.

The second number also connects me with someone who speaks English with a British accent—a woman who answers the phone with a clipped “Aida.”

I was expecting another company, some kind of organization, but I’m not sure why Aida’s voice catches me off guard the way it does.

“Oh—” I say. “I’m sorry.” But I forget to tell her that I have the wrong number.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“Actually, yes. Have you ever heard of—” I stop myself before I can complete the sentence. What the fuck am I doing? What business of mine is it that Carolyn has called a couple of people in Italy? For all I know, this Aida is a friend of hers. Most of us do have international acquaintances. It wouldn’t be odd.

“No,” I say firmly. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Have a good—” Italy is six hours ahead, so… “—evening.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

At least Aida doesn’t seem fazed by this at all.

I’m turning into a goddamn wreck.

Carolyn did not respond to that declaration well at all. And maybe it’s because I didn’t plan it. Maybe it’s because I just blurted it out to stop myself from telling her that I overheard the strange phone call. It’s still true, though. Every other indication tells me that she feels the same way, so why the weird, guilty look?

Am I just getting entrapped into another no-win situation, like with Elisa?

The memory of her giggling in one of the markets in Rome makes my stomach knot up. Things can go so fucking wrong, if you’re not careful.

I just don’t know the best way to fix this.

On Tuesday, she texts me at about three o’clock, and the sight of her name makes my heart flutter, despite the churning in my gut about everything else.

Meet me at my place. 5:30?

Done.

Her spare key has been tucked in my pocket, going with me everywhere, since she gave it to me on Sunday.

Another text comes in.

I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to talk with you. Let’s figure this out.

So she feels it too—the unrest, the unease.

The only issue now is that I can’t sit in this office and wait any longer. Not now. Not today.

I open my email and write a hasty out-of-office message telling everyone I’ll be back tomorrow, turn off the screen, and pick up my phone from my desk.

Noah is waiting at the curb when I get there.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t stop my jaw from clenching. “The penthouse.”

“No problem.” He says it calmly, neutrally, but I see his worried look in the rearview mirror. Maybe I’ll tell him what’s been going on. After it’s over and done with.