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“You can ask him to tell you his name—it’s George Oriole.”
“That sounds like a fake name.”
“It’s not. I promise.”
“And I should have faith in your promises? How do I even know RJ isn’t something you made up?” It’s a legitimate question. He’s been dishonest with me before. In fact, everything I know about him is based on a lie.
He sighs. “RJ isn’t a made-up name for me either—it’s what my dad used to call me, and my brother and sister still do most of the time. It’s only my teammates and non–family members who know me as Rook or Rookie. Please ask him his name, Lainey, so I can see you.”
“Fine. Give me a second.” I relent, because as angry as I still am, I want some answers. “Excuse me, sir, can you please tell me your name? First and last,” I call to the suit. He’s eerily still.
“George Oriole, Miss Carver. I’m in Mr. Bowman’s employ as a driver. Please allow me to take you to him.”
“Thank you.” I hold up a finger and give him my back. “He gave me the right name.”
“So you’re on your way?”
“What if he’s not actually George Oriole? What if he hijacked the SUV on the way here and he’s posing as him? What if George’s body is in the trunk?” I realize I sound like a lunatic, but this is the kind of thing that happens in crime shows all the time. Also, last night I couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up too late watching TV, and I woke up on the couch after midnight to that exact scenario playing on the screen.
To his credit, RJ doesn’t even question my sanity—he simply tells me to take a picture of the driver and message it to him, so I do, and he confirms that it is, indeed, George.
“I’m getting in the SUV now.”
“Okay, great. I would’ve come to get you myself, but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that.”
“This is better, thanks. I’ll see you soon.” I end the call, and George opens the back door, holding out a hand to help me in.
I feel very much like I’ve entered the twilight zone. Bottles of water, both still and sparkling, sit in an ice bucket in the center console. There’s also a take-out cup containing a hot beverage. I pick it up and give it a sniff.
“Mr. Bowman requested a hot chocolate for you, Miss Carver—I hope it’s to your liking.”
“Thank you—I’m sure it’s perfect.” I settle in and watch the scenery change as we leave the Loop and head toward the outskirts of the city. The farther we get from my apartment building, the bigger and nicer the houses are. We pass grand-looking estates with manicured front lawns and gorgeous landscaping.
I shouldn’t be at all surprised when the SUV pulls down the driveway of one of the really nice, really big houses. It’s a two-story Craftsman with a huge wraparound porch. In some ways the rustic-ness reminds me of his cabin in Alaska, except tailored to the city.
I pop a breath mint and crunch down on it as George pulls up to the front steps and puts the car in park. My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry as I gather my purse and run my hands over my thighs. I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. I went light on the makeup, only covering up the dark circles under my eyes and throwing on a coat of mascara—and, okay, maybe a bit of eyeliner and a hint of shadow too. I want to look decent but not like I tried too hard for him.
George opens the door and extends a hand, helping me out of the car. “I’ll be here to take you home when you’re ready, Miss Carver.”
“Thank you, George.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
As I climb the front steps, the door opens. I almost expect to be greeted by a butler, but it’s RJ standing there, waiting for me. He has one hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans; his black T-shirt stretches across his broad chest.
“Thank you for agreeing to come.” He moves back, allowing me to step inside.
“You’re welcome.” I’m both relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t try to hug me.
I take in the spacious entrance, cataloging the decor. Despite the house being huge, probably twice the size of the cabin in Alaska, it still manages to have a homey, cozy feel to it. The floors are rough-hewn hardwood; the color palette is warm and light and the decor a combination of rustic country and modern elements.
I leave my shoes at the front door, a habit I’ve never been able to shake, having grown up on a farm. I follow RJ down a wide hallway to a state-of-the-art kitchen. I wonder if he cooks at all or if he has someone who does that for him. All the articles I’ve read about him and the horrible pictures I’ve seen chronicling his womanizing ways come to mind, and I have to wonder how many women he’s paraded through this house—how many parties has he thrown?
