“I’m closing in. No doubt he has a ton of shady money that I haven’t yet been able to fully trace. And he’s deep in association with all the known buyers, as well as plenty of—as you Scots like to call them—unsavories. We’re seventy-five percent of the way there.”
“And the other twenty-five percent?” I’m feeling restless, ready to dispatch this guy. The way von Graf’s had access to Gemini,even though it’s just Josie’s avatar or sketches, makes my skin crawl. The sooner the bastard’s dead, the sooner I can be sure he’ll never get near her—virtually or, God forbid, in real life.
“I’m working on it.”
“Work faster,” I say, and Strike barks out a laugh. Fair enough. He does not work for me.
“I’m giving you a pass because I know the unique torture of being head over heels in love with someone and feeling certain you can’t have that person.”
I grab my letter opener—I know fifteen ways to kill a man with it. Strike just laughs, standing up and knocking back the rest of his drink. “Cheers for the scotch, mate.”
He salutes me, walks out my front door, and slips into the night. I click, and Josie’s back up on my computer screen. I stare at the three smiling images.Bonny lass.One word echoes over and over and over again in my head:love, love, love.
Thirty-Two
Josie
You know I’m not keeping the Mini Cooper. I’m driving it to Toygasm, and then bringing it right back to the dealer.
Feel guilty cheating on Gertrude?
Yup. I’m a car monogamist
I hit send and stare at the phone. Is this flirting? Am I flirting? Thankfully, our texts will not be part of data collection for She’s the One. Still, I’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t so much fun. We’ve been texting off and on since six this morning. (Does the man sleep? I have no idea what his house looks like, but for some reason, I think of Batman’s underground lair—all sorts of tech gadgets under one long concrete roof.)
I’d expect nothing less from you. And I bet Gertrude respects your loyalty. Though I do think she needs a little help on the safety front
You ride a motorcycle and you’re worried about safety?
My motorcycle is held together with more than duct tape and good vibes
Right, it’s held together with magic and machismo
There’s a pause, and then Axe calls me on FaceTime—and even though I’m in the bathroom, trying to wrangle my hair into something that looks less like a hot mess, my desire to see his face is an irresistible gravitational pull.
“Heyyy!”
“Morning.” His eyes crinkle with a quick smile, but then he’s all business. “I wanted to give you this news in person before you hear it from the crew.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s the One wants to data map us for a weekend away. Somewhere cozy, not too fancy, and maybe up near Shimmy Beach.”
“Oh cool.” I sound casual, but I’m squealing inside. I’ve wanted to go to Shimmy Beach practically my whole life. It’s always in Shelton’s top-ten nearby romantic destinations, and my Instagram feed is filled with high school friends flaunting engagement rings with Lake Erie shimmering in the background.
Of course, Bryan never wanted to go.
But then it hits me—my first time at Shimmy Beach and I’m not going there for romance. I’m going there for faux-mance, something even less real than all those staged Instagram photo shoots I’ve long outgrown believing in. In the next moment, I canfeel my smile fade, and then I can’t help but dive into the awkwardness of it all.
“So, are they going to map out everything? Like, even how I take my coffee and whether I wake up with bedhead?”
Axe laughs, a sound that eases some of my nerves. “I doubt they’ll care about the coffee metrics. Also, for your information, you’ve got resting bedhead.”
“Hey!” I pull out my messy bun, trying now to tame it into a high ponytail, even though my hair doesn’t do sleek unless I spend hours burning my fingers and singeing my strands on a flat iron.
“Not to worry. I’ve got a thing for lasses with resting bedhead.”
“I’m not blushing, you’re blushing,” I shoot back with the kind of sarcasm that fools nobody, hoping Axe can’t see the red in my cheeks through FaceTime. Compliments and I go together like toothpaste and orange juice, especially when they come from Axe, who never says anything he doesn’t mean.
