Page 191 of The Sweetest Return

“The bracelet is here,” I said. “The pear drops are still at the New York atelier.”

Nina checked her notes. “The clasp correction is done, but the drops are approved for in-person release only. No courier or third-party handoff.”

I looked toward operations. “And the certified case?”

He cleared his throat. “The alternate case passed inspection, but the insurer hasn't updated the rider.”

Cleo closed her eyes.

I smiled because sometimes that was safer for everybody.

“When?”

“End of day tomorrow.”

“End of day tomorrow would be excellent if the jewelry did not need to be in Malibu tomorrow afternoon.”

He nodded as though we had discovered the problem together. “Correct.”

“Wonderful.”

Commercial courier was out. Commercial flights were possible, but getting me from Pittsburgh to New York for the drops and then across the country left almost no cushion for the kind of delay airlines treated as personality.

I sat back while my mind worked.

Luxury looked like velvet trays, champagne, perfect lighting, and a beautiful woman wearing something the rest of the world had not yet realized it wanted. Beneath all that shine lived contracts, insurance riders, security, signatures, transport windows, and enough logistics to make desire look like math.

“What do we think?”

Nina answered first. “New York prepares the drops for personal release. No courier, no alternate handoff. Cleo gets whatever additional time Marisol can give us.”

“And operations stays on the insurer,” I said. “I want an actual answer, not an estimate. Time and signature.”

The meeting broke around action.

Cleo went to charm Marisol without letting Marisol feel charmed. Nina went to make the atelier respect and fear her in equal measure. Operations left to chase an insurer and possibly question every choice that had led him into luxury goods.

I returned to my office and opened flight combinations.

Pittsburgh to LaGuardia.

Pittsburgh to JFK.

Pittsburgh to Newark.

New York to LAX.

New York to Burbank.

Every option looked possible on paper and insulting in practice.

My phone lit beside my laptop.

Dre.

His contact photo appeared with his name, a picture he had taken himself while stretched across my couch looking far too pleased with life.

I answered before the second ring.