Page 151 of Rhodes

“Sure.”

“So I'll call one.”

Cooper watches me for a second longer than I like. Then he shrugs. "Suit yourself. I just figured using somebody you already know makes more sense. Want me to call him?”

“No.”

It comes out fast enough that he lifts his eyebrows.

I grip the edge of the counter.

“No?”

“I'll call him.”

Cooper's expression changes, not much, but enough that I know he noticed something.

I pick up my phone and open his contact. His name is still there, exactly where I left it.

For the first time in months, I press call.

THIRTY-THREE

Rhodes

Matching Brick: The only true match for a hundred-year-old brick is another hundred-year-old brick, which is why salvage yards exist and why the search can take a season. Anyone can supply brick. Finding the one that belongs is the work.

I’m halfway through explaining to a warehouse supervisor why moving the second load before the first one clears is going to jam his dock when my phone vibrates against the folding table beside me.

I glance at the screen and lose the next word in my sentence. It's Tallulah for the second time in two days.

The first call came late yesterday while I was checking into my hotel in Tampa. It rang once, then stopped before I could answer it. She didn't leave a voicemail or send a text.

I've spent the last eighteen hours trying to decide if that was a butt dial or she meant to call me. A second call tells me it might have been intentional.

“Rhodes?”

I look up.

The supervisor is waiting, one hand resting on the paperwork I was just pointing at. Behind him, a forklift backs out of the building with a warning beep, then swings toward the staging area where the first shipment is still being counted.

“Sorry.” I pick the thread back up. “If you bring the Jacksonville load in before those pallets clear, you’re going to have two carriers waiting on the same doors. Hold the second truck at the yard until Bev from scheduling confirms this one is unloaded.”

He looks over his shoulder. “That puts us at least an hour behind.”

“An hour here is cheaper than three hours with both drivers sitting on detention.”

The client beside me nods. “Do it.”

The supervisor takes the paperwork and heads toward the dock. My phone is still ringing. I pick it up before it gets away this time.

“Hey.”

There is a short pause. “Hey.”

Her voice makes my chest constrict. I turn away from the dock and walk toward the far end of the building, where the noise drops enough that I can hear her without putting a finger in my other ear.

“I wasn't sure if you meant to call me yesterday. Sorry I didn't call you back.”