CHAPTER TWELVE
Waylon
Man. Fucking man. The goddamned shit I do for my “friends.” I knock on the door of this chick’s apartment, holding a bouquet of roses in my hand. This is not the sort of crap I do. Girls. Flowers. Hand delivery. But Gustavo said he’d do me a favor if I did one for him, and this girl refuses to see him for some reason. Maybe because she’s smart?
I hear light footsteps approach the closed door, the dead bolt clicks, and the door swings open.
Jesus. I nearly dump the flowers in my hand. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and has intense brown eyes that make me feel like…I don’t fucking know. Like I’m watching the end of some sad-as-shit war movie, where the guy is dying and remembers all the people he loves—his mom and the girl back home. I don’t know. But looking into her eyes feels like that, until she notices the flowers in my hand and smiles. It’s a smile that feels like looking at the most fucking gorgeous painting in the world.
“Those for me?” she asks.
My heart slams against my ribs. This girl is hotter than any woman I’ve ever seen. Fuck. Who is she?
“Uh, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head and look down, handing over the bouquet and a note.
“Oh. Wow.” She takes them and inhales their scent with that perfect delicate nose.
As I watch, all I can think of is how she should be on the cover of a magazine. No. Fuck that. She’s too beautiful. If she were mine, I wouldn’t want other guys jerking off to her picture.
“Oh. Hold on. I’ll get my purse,” she says, leaving the door open.
Purse. For a tip? I’m about to laugh, but that wouldn’t be cool. Babe, I’ve got a mansion on each coast, one in Paris, and millions in the bank. But I am not going to pass up an opportunity to look at her some more, so I wait in the doorway.
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” I say, eyeing her as she bends over and shuffles through her purse, which is sitting on a chair by the dining room table.
I’m not a fucked-up pervert who objectifies women. It’s not about that. The thing is, I love the hell out of art. Started out doing graffiti on highway overpasses when I was twelve. At sixteen, when my mother ran off with some drug dealer, I started stealing so I could feed my little sister, who was nine at the time. My dad is a mystery. Never met him. So we were on our own, but I did what I had to and kept my sister and me together. It’s amazing what a kid can get away with as long as he has money to pay the rent. In our neighborhood, no one noticed, let alone gave a shit that my mother hadn’t been seen around. The school didn’t care much either. Just as long as we didn’t get in trouble, which we didn’t, and they had no reason to believe we were fending for ourselves.
By eighteen, I got a real job and filed for guardianship of my sister—some goody-goody free attorney helped me with that.
At twenty-two I got a reputation, a good one, and now I make upwards of one mil per job. I love taking art, but I’ll steal anything for the right price, except shit from the US government. Hey, what can I say? I’m a fucking patriot. And I love my dollars, which I happen to have a lot of and wouldn’t dream of undermining. In God and the almighty dollar I trust.
“I’m so sorry. All I’ve got is a five.” She walks back over to the doorway, hands me the bill, and smiles.
I can’t explain it, but looking in her eyes feels good. Like she knows me, and I know her. Who the fuck you kidding, man? Look at that sweet face and body. She’s not the kind of woman to date a thief, even if I’m the best.
I take the bill and dip my head. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it.”
She laughs. “Ma’am? Oh, God. Please don’t tell me I look that old?”
Isn’t that just fucking like me? Foot in damned mouth. “No. Sorry. You look great. Spectacular even.” I push my glasses up my nose. It’s a façade. Preppy, shy guy on the outside, down and dirty asshole on the inside. It’s a cover I’ve perfected over ten long years, hiding my true life—first my and my sister’s parentless situation. Now it hides my profession. But respectable pretty boy, I am not.
“Ohmygod. You’re so cute.” She giggles.
“Cute?” I raise a brow. That sure is hell isn’t how my acquaintances would describe me. Cunning. Efficient. Smart. Never fucking cute.
“Sorry.” She holds out her hand, and I notice her long elegant fingers.
“That’s it.” I point at her. “You remind me of a Botticelli, The Birth of Venus.” Yeah, that’s exactly it. And it explains why she looks so familiar. Venus has this lost look in her eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s love or sadness. But it’s one of my favorite paintings in the world. I plan to steal it soon. “Sorry. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, I just happen to love art. And you definitely remind me of that painting.”
“Really?” She runs those long fingers over her collarbone. I greedily watch every second of it. “I think you’re just trying to get more money out of me, but you’ll be sorry to know that I’m fresh out of cash, so your compliments are wasted.”
I like how her smile is warm and genuine as she tells me to fuck off. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I actually meant what I said. No hidden motives.” Except to see you smile again, baby.
She delivers, and I’m fucking drilled—holes right through my damned heart. We’re vibing so hard that I forget I’m doing a favor for Gustavo. The fucking hit man. And when a dick like that asks you to do something because you just happen to be in town and he’s busy on a job, you don’t say no. Unless you want to be the next asshole on his trophy wall. Plus, I know his skills will come in handy someday. Like me, he’s the best at what he does.
Which is why I’m walking away now.
“Have a good day,” I say, ready to leave and ignore the amazing attraction I feel for this woman. For the record, I’ve never wanted a woman like this. Instant connection. But whoever she is to Gustavo, he doesn’t fuck around. So if he wants her, that makes her off-limits to me.
“Thanks. You too,” she says.
I step into the hallway, and screw me, but with every damned step I take, I feel the urge grow. Can I really never see her again? Just one cup of coffee. A dinner. Something. It’s crazy as hell, but I’ve never looked at a woman and wanted to know everything about her.
Don’t you do it. Don’t you fucking turn around, man. She’s involved with Gustavo.
On the other hand, I am a thief.
I turn and offer her a charming smile. “I know this might seem strange, but would you like to go to Florence with me next week? I have two free passes to the Uffizi Gallery and two prepaid airline tickets. I won this raffle thing on the radio, and my little sister was going to go, but she’s got finals to study for.”
This tall blonde goddess stares at me, and I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. Normally, I can figure out anyone. It’s part of what makes me good at my job.
“Sorry.” I hold up my palms. “I just came across like some weird stalker. I just… Have you ever had a feeling about someone?”
She blinks at me but doesn’t respond. Not at first.
“Yes,” she finally says.
“Yes, you’ve had a feeling, or yes, you think I’m a stalker?”
“Yes, I’d like to go to Florence with you. I should have my passport in a few days.”
Whatthefuck? She said yes?
I try to play it cool. “I, uh…uh…great. Give me your number and email. I’ll send you all the details.”
She laughs. “How about a name?”
“Yeah, I guess I need your name, too. For the ticket.”
She chuckles again. “No. I meant your name. What’s your name?”
Oh. I stretch out my hand. I’m Gustavo’s new target if you tell him a thing. “Waylon.” I shake her hand. “I’m Waylon Jones.”
“Rose. Rose Marie Hale. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Waylon.”
Rose
Uh. What just happened? This hot flower-delivery guy shows up at my door, smiling at me, and I just melt like a fifteen-year-old girl? And I agreed to go to Italy with him.
I close the door behind Waylon after exchanging our information. This is insane. Why did I say yes? Especially because something in my stomach is telling me I should have said no. He’s not even on the list.
Wait. What am I saying? I go sit on my white sofa and stare out the window with a view of the street below. A woman, a dog walker I presume, is outside with three small dogs and a golden retriever who couldn’t look happier—bounce in its step, tail wagging, nose high in the air, and enjoying life.
Okay, you know it’s time for a little self-reflection when you wish you could trade places with a dog. Clearly I’m at a crossroads I should have seen coming. I promised myself I wouldn’t marry a man just to satisfy the will, and I won’t. But I’ve also been so focused on making sure my grandparents don’t get their hands on the estate that I never considered dating men who aren’t “approved.” What’s the point if it means letting those a-holes win?
But am I really willing to miss out on the possibility of love with the right man, even if it means taking a more difficult path—walking away from my inheritance or fighting for it? It’s a question I have to answer, because in less than two weeks, I have to make a choice.
The thing is, part of me feels like if I contest the will, I’ll be betraying my mother. It would mean letting go of this part of her that’s always been hovering in the background, watching over me. It sounds crazy, but at the time, thinking my life had been by her design always gave me a sense of peace. Yeah, I was alone a lot. Yes, I felt tired sometimes from all the work I had to do. But that was what my mom wanted. She wanted to teach me something from beyond the grave.
All that turned out to be a lie, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that it made me feel connected to her in some small way.
Oddly, after I found out the truth, I felt closer to her than ever. She never wanted me to live like that. She’d wanted me to be looked after and loved. Maybe this thing about marrying before my twenty-first birthday is my way of honoring her. It’s what would have made her happy. So when I think about deliberately considering a man who’s not on the list, I feel like…like I’m turning my back on her.
Then there’s this other part of me that says she never knew what I’d be up against. She would have wanted me to be loved by a good man, because it’s what I would want for my own daughter. I’d tell her to throw caution to the wind, get caught up in a whirlwind romance, and run away for a weekend with a handsome man to Europe. Get swept off your feet and fall madly in love. That’s what I’d say because it’s what I want for myself. I mean, how many times have I sat there staring at an attractive guy, a stranger on the street, wondering if he’s the one. So now that I’m finally free from my grandparents’ mental prison, shouldn’t I be searching for my epic fairytale, like I’ve read about in my mother’s books?
Or maybe you’re being naïve like she was, I scold myself. She was obsessed with romance, so much so that she died alone.
I often wonder if it’s because her standards were so incredibly high that real men couldn’t compete. Her heroes were all perfect. Perfect smiles, bodies, and hearts. Even the ones who start out all messed up evolve into the perfect man by the end of the story. But I’m not looking for Mr. Perfect. I’m looking for Mr. Perfect-For-Me.
So, Rose Marie Hale, what are you willing to sacrifice for him? An image of my grandparents in that house, counting piles of cash belonging to me while they laugh at my mother’s memory, racks my mind. I instantly feel the bitterness of their cruelty and lies sawing me down the middle.
No. I can’t let them get away with this. They can’t win. Which means I’ll call Waylon tomorrow and tell him I can’t go. If after my twenty-first birthday I come up empty-handed, then it’ll be a different story. But I couldn’t live with myself if I made it easy for good ol’ Melvin and Gertie.
I look at my watch and realize it’s almost seven o’clock. Crap. I really want to call Bex right now. I need to hear his voice—for the reassurance that I’m making the right choice about sticking to my plan, of course. Nothing more.
Unfortunately, I have a do-over date at eight with Chad, who’s one of the guys on the list. His parents own a chain of high-end steak houses, and he’s currently studying to be a chef. He seems like a really nice person, but I didn’t get the chance to talk to him much on our first date since I spilled soup down my dress. I hope tonight goes better since he invited me to some fundraiser dinner at his parents’ restaurant.
I eye my cell phone sitting on my kitchen counter. No. No Bex. You can wait to talk to him. Besides, if I call now, he’ll get pissed. This isn’t an emergency.
On the other hand, he said he’d be there for me.
No. No! You’re a big girl. And you have a date. No more thinking about Bex. Think about moving forward. Finding Mr. Right and living happily ever after.
But why do I feel like something big is holding me back?