Perfect man.
Perfect scenario.
“Can I ask you something?” I say quietly. “And promise you won’t get mad?”
“Anything.”
His response is too fast, and he’s going to quickly regret that.
“Where’s Bobby?”
As I predicted, Bronte’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t retreat or back away. Instead, he takes a few seconds to ground himself before professing, “In Chicago.”
I scrunch up my face. “Chicago…”
“With Franco Giordano, so I didn’t kill him.”
“What?” As fast as I can, I try to grapple with the idea that sending his brother to amob bossis going to be a better scenario, but it just won’t stick. “You shipped him to a criminal and expected him to play nice?”
“I do.”
He’s either lost his mind or drunk too much wine.
“Murder isn’t something you’re going to give me a free pass on,” Bronte conveys. “I needed some space.”
“Then send himhome.”
“I did.” I lift my shoulders because I don’t get it. “That’s where Jolene lives, Daydream.”
I’ve felt anger plenty of times since all this transpired.
However, I feel fury in groves, one coming right after the other, when he says that Chicago is where Bobby’s other chick lives.
“You mad about that?” Bronte implores with a flat tone and an even flatter fuck given. “I recently discovered he has her up in a penthouse suite?—”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I know why he wouldn’t tell me because I was just attacked by his brother yesterday, and now we’re at his family’s house.
Regardless, I still feel stupid and not worthy of the emotion because, again, it should’ve been clear as day.
“Bobby won’t die. He’ll come back to New York shortly, I’m sure. I’ve already received threatening text messages from my father in the last twenty-four hours about where he is and what my plans are. Technically, his will states that any living heir of his will still obtain Harding Holdings after his death. The old man still thought I’d come back after all this time.”
I blink, knowing this must be a sensitive topic for him, so I try to keep it light. “Was that what you were supposed to do?” He nods. “And you won’t.”
“For what? That’s not part of my life anymore.”
“Right.”
“There’s more.”
Okay, I hate this talking stuff.
Bronte reaches over for something, then arrives with bougatsa between his fingertips.
“Your mother is going to kill you,” I lightly chide before he takes a bite and lives dangerously within his mother’s wrath.
