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“He did. How was he?”
“Well, Miss Cannizzaro, he was something else. Handsome, strong, sharp. He had girlfriends, naturally, and he was friendly with everyone.” The pilot clears his throat, and then adds, “But he was never a womanizer, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
There’s nothing new in that. The man himself confessed last night that he’d never played with women, although it’s good to get confirmation. “I guess I’m not the first to try to fish out information about your boss?”
Wyatt lets out a laugh. “He’s done a lot for his family, and for other people. But he doesn’t like to talk about it. Despite his public profile, he’s actually a very private man.”
I duck my head, smelling the neckline of Rob’s sweater.
“A lot of rich people claim to be philanthropists, but the money they donate is usually business money. But I can tell you, Miss Cannizzaro, Rob donates a lot of his personal money to charity. Especially to kids’ mental health.”
Handsome, strong, sharp.
Not a womanizer.
Generous.
My core aches. What if someone else comes into his life and takes the plunge while I keep hesitating, dipping my toes in and out?
I look down at the San Luis Obispo Bay below me, following the coastline. From here you only see the blue water, the calm and the peace—just like how Rob sees my life.Simple. I wish it was true.
As always, Wyatt lands the chopper gently.
“I hope this isn’t going to be the last time I fly you,” Wyatt says as he helps me down to the tarmac.
“The next time we fly, I want to sit in the co-pilot’s seat.”
“Deal.”
With Robby apparently out of town, Mama meets me at the airport.
“Rosa,stai bene?”
I nod.
“Did he break your heart?”
“No. What makes you think that? He was lovely.”
Not satisfied with ‘lovely,’ Mama throws a questioning gaze.
“No, I didn’t sleep with him. Well, we slept together, but we didn’t have sex.”
“Peccato.” Mama pities me, hinting at how hopeless she thinks I am.
At home, finally having time for myself, I let my body freefall onto the bed. Luckily it’s Thursday and Amber The Mender is closed.
I switch on my cell.
Three missed calls, and I realize they’re from Captain Clara Cloutier. She left a message:
Ma chérie.We think Aidan Rolland is in Tijuana. I’ve alerted the LAPD. Don’t be alarmed just yet, but please be careful. Call Sgt. Laura Garcia if there’s anything. Anything at all.
She’s attached a photo from a shop’s CCTV. It’s blurry, you can’t really see his face, but he does look like Aidan.
I drop my cell as if clumps of ice have been put into my hands—the sensation I get when I think about my violent ex. So, that red rose could very well be from him.
But everything is still speculation at this stage. There’s a possibility that Aidan isn’t anywhere near California—and even if he is, he probably hasn’t found me. I should keep things to myself for now before the police blow the whistle prematurely.
