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He chuckles. “And they call you a sharpshooter,” he calls out as he closes the door behind him.
Fucker.
I scroll through my phone until I find Jess’s number, filed under “CG.” I shoot her a text and wait her out.
Can we talk?
An hour later, after a thorough review of Zac’s new inventory system, I check my phone. Still no response from Jess, so I try again.
I really need to talk to you.
By the time I’ve finished reviewing next month’s menus with the staff, getting the seating arrangements for the Whitney wedding changed to accommodate nearly two hundred people instead of one hundred people, and reconciling the accounting for the month, my brain is fried.
I blow out a breath. Not a word from Choir Girl.
So, I do the unthinkable. I apologize.
Sorry I was an asshat. Please call back.
A text pings back, but the small surge of relief is instantly snuffed out. It isn’t Jess. It’s Brian. Even his text looks unhinged.
Did you talk to Jess???
Brian sends me a screenshot. Her phone finder app has her pinned on possibly the worst street in Albany. Without even speaking to him, I know Brian’s about to lose his shit. Hell, my heart’s beating out of my rib cage, and I’m half a breath away from losing my own shit.
What the fuck is she doing there?
Keep calm, I tell myself. If I’m panicked, Brian will panic tenfold.
I lock my voice into casual mode and call. “I’ve texted her several times. She hasn’t returned my texts, but that’s nothing new, considering her nickname for me is sometimes Satan. Have you tried calling her?”
“Yes, dumbass. Tried that first. I’m heading that way, but I’m home.” The Bishop home is buried in a southwest pocket of Adirondack Park—at least an hour and a half from Albany. His voice rises, unnerved. “I need you to—”
“I’ll take care of it. I’m leaving now.”
I grab the nearest keys and rush out the front, nearly plowing down Anita. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”
“Wait.” She blocks my path. “Did Jess find you?”
“Yes,” I grumble, irritated. Now I just need to find her.
“Oh, good. I know she was worried about getting that watch for Brian.”
Impatient, I mutter, “What watch?” as I move around her and make my way to the truck.
Anita keeps pace, shoving her phone in my face. “This watch.”
I check out the price tag. All her paychecks for two months wouldn’t cover that watch. “How is she paying for a four-thousand-dollar watch?”
“She isn’t. Some guy is selling his old one.”
Of course. Because that’s what people do. Sell four-thousand-dollar watches for a fraction of the price. It happens every day.
I get in the truck, slam the gas, punch the dashboard, and shout, “Fuuuck!”
* * *
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