Because letting it go isn’t an option.
The realization comes with a dull ache inside my chest that won’t go away with a glass of milk or over-the-counter antacids. I lether slip through my fingers, and I didn’t even try to stop her. I told myself that it was a one-off, that moments like the one we shared on the sheepskin rug on my apartment floor can never be repeated. We could try, but we’d both be seriously disappointed. And then what?
The memory is destroyed when the second experience doesn’t meet expectations. We both get let down with a gigantic bang. And things become awkward.
So, I clung to the images in my head and turned Remy Jones into a fantasy that I would never forget. I watched her on the casino floor the way a dying man in the desert watches a mirage of an oasis in the distance. I branded her untouchable. Tried to focus on expanding my business and the shit going down with Cash while keeping her in my sight.
And every time she glanced at me from across the room and her shoulders dropped, I reminded myself that the reality could never live up to the ideal image of her that I’d created in my head.
I haven’t even told Cash how I feel.
This is a first, for both of us. We’re twins. We can communicate without words. But this feels as if Remy has interfered with our silent connection and caused a glitch that neither of us recognized until now. He must’ve taken her up to my apartment when I was away on business. The clothes. The lost pendant. But he didn’t think to mention it either.
Why?
Because it was so trivial it wasn’t worth mentioning? Or does he know more about Remy than he’s letting on?
Not that I think Cash has anything to do with the grifter and his fiancée. Trust runs deep in our family. We would die for one another in a heartbeat, and Cash and I were created from the same egg in the womb. But something about the whole situation is niggling away at me, and I can’t fathom it out.
I switch off my tablet and refill my brandy glass.
Is it too late to tell Remy that I haven’t stopped thinking about her? Cash saw her talking to her ex on the casino floor. If—and I realize that I’m distorting the facts here a little—she knows what George and Isabella are up to, would she even believe me? Or would she think that I’m using her to get to them?
I down my brandy in one.
It burns like the cut on my hand.
One-night stands don’t cause this level of distraction. In the heat of the moment, I said that she’d bewitched me, but I’m starting to truly fucking believe it, and if I don’t do something about it, she’ll become the chink in my armor that Isabella Leone is looking for.
Tomorrow.
That’s what I tell myself when I stare out of my apartment window at the blinking lights of the city.
I’ll tell her how I feel tomorrow, and if the fantasy is dispelled, then I’ll move on and chalk it up to experience.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Murray, but Ms. Jones quit.”
She quit?“When?”
The pit boss’s expression remains neutral. He’s simply doing his job, running the floor, making sure that the guests have everything they need to keep them throwing money at the tables.
“This morning. I received an email from her.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“It isn’t normal procedure, Mr. Murray. I wasn’t aware that it required escalating to you.”
“I want to see the email.” I’ve no idea what I hope to gain from reading it, but it feels like my last tenuous connection to her. I start to walk away and then stop. “Did she state a reason for quitting?”
He studies me as though he no longer recognizes the person in front of him, and I suppress the urge to pin him against the wall by his throat and squeeze the information out of him. Perhaps it’s time to find a new pit boss.
“Personal reasons. I have no reason to pry. I can replace her with someone with experience.” He pauses, and I clench my fists when he adds, “Do you want me to run my selection past you before I interview?”
“I want you to hold fire until I’ve spoken to her.”
“Sir, might I suggest that she wasn’t exactly?—”
“No, you might not.”
