The man exhales. “I lost that job, Ms. Riley. My cousin got me this one. It’s not the best, but it puts food on the table.”

“So you’re, what, an enforcer? I played volleyball with your niece!” She crosses her arms.

What the hell . . . I frown. “You figured out who he is?”

She nods.

Harold holds his hands up. “I swear. I’m just a messenger.”

“For bookies,” Giselle mutters. “Harassing women and approaching an innocent man just because he’s Garrett’s son. Despicable.”

He pales and looks at me beseechingly. “Please. I’m just looking for Garrett. He owes my boss fifty grand, and if he doesn’t get it, then I’m the one in trouble.” His shoulders slump. “I honestly don’t like approaching you, sir. Not what I’d like to be doing today.”

The doorman has noticed us and comes over, but I hold my finger up to let him know to stay but not interfere yet.

“I assure you no harm will come to either of you,” Harold continues, his throat bobbing. “It’s just a large sum of money—”

“You used to change my oil and rotate my tires, Harold! There are plenty of places to work with your skills. Is this how you want to be remembered? As some kind of hit man?”

Harold looks mortified. “Not a hit man, Ms. Riley. Please understand.”

As fascinating as this is, I pull Giselle back until she’s behind me. “Stop looking for my dad. He’s moved.” I pull a card out of my wallet and thrust it in his hands. “That’s my guy. Call him, and he’ll settle the bill today. I won’t pay any more after this; you got me?”

He flicks the card through his fingers, obvious relief on his face. “Thank you.”

He turns to leave, and I call out, “I have friends in high places. Politicians and cops love me. I see your face again, and we’ve got problems.”

He gives me a jerky nod, still eyeing Giselle. “I hope I never see y’all again. Please don’t tell Cynthia about this.”

“Call her, Harold! You don’t have to be an assassin! She’ll find you a real job!”

He pales and sends a final harried look over his shoulder, then dashes across the street to his vehicle and leaves, truck tires squealing.

“Giselle, that man is scared of you,” I muse as relief rolls off me, a burden lifted. No matter how screwed up my relationship with Dad is, I want to take care of this debt for him. He’s struggling every day with his addiction, and maybe somewhere out there, he’s figuring himself out. I tap out a quick text to Lawrence to let him know they’ll be calling.

Giselle laces her fingers in mine. “I can’t believe Harold has sunk this low. He used to be the nicest man.”

I pocket my phone and stare down at her. “You really are crazy.”

“I prefer southern.”

My lips twitch. “Beast.”

“I’ll show you fierce tonight. BDSM is a particular interest of mine—I think. No ball gags or Saint Andrew’s Cross, but maybe some spanking—”

I groan and plant a kiss on her lips. “How the hell did any man ever let you get away?”

“Fate,” she says simply and searches my face. “You okay?”

As long as I have you.

“It’s a relief, actually, to have his debt paid. Go get your new advisor. I’ll bring Milano’s. Just text me what you want.”

I open the door to Red, she gets in, and I shut the door. She rolls down the window and calls out as I’m walking to the Hummer. “Tonight is episode ten on Shark Week about an eighteen-footer in the Guadalupe waters—”

I jog back over and kiss her before she can finish. “No.”

She laughs, and I walk backward and watch as she pulls away. I stand there until she disappears in the traffic.

“Your car, Mr. Walsh,” interrupts the valet, who’s been holding the door for me.

I start and look over at him. Right. I guess I’ve just been standing here.

My heart flutters in my chest. I miss her already.

Chapter 23

GISELLE

“Giselle? Are you still listening?” Dr. Benson says, and I snap to attention in the seat across from her desk. What was she talking about? Her studies at CERN. Right. “You seem a little distracted.”

Oh, I am. Devon, Devon. His mouth, his hands, his laugh. My mind tangles in memories—me sleeping tucked in his arms under the stars, the slide of him inside me this morning . . . I feel giddy, like I’m flying over rainbows on a real-life unicorn. In other words, in love.

“I tend to ramble, but it’s been a joy speaking with you. I’m glad to be your advisor,” she continues, shuffling papers in front of her, copies of my grades and papers.

“Thank you so much for taking me on.” My relief is obvious.

“You’re welcome.” She studies me, then nods, making notes on her laptop. She’s an attractive woman with bobbed strawberry-blonde hair, stylish yellow glasses, and a svelte figure. Her clothes are well made, a jacket and slacks—the same taupe color as mine. According to her bio, she’s thirty-five. Will I be her in ten years?

“No need to email Dr. Blanton now; I’ll tell him today.” The words come from her with a touch of malice, and I bite back a smile. She’s had her own run-ins with him, I bet. “Women in science need to lift each other up,” she adds solemnly.

“Fix each other’s crowns,” I murmur.

“Or our particle accelerators.”

We laugh.

I stand when she does and shake her hand, my eyes snagging on a framed photo on her desk of her with two boys in her lap. They’re little, maybe three, and look identical. My gaze traces their faces. “Twins. Yours?”

“Nephews. My brother’s kids. Little rascals. One of them stole my phone last Christmas and hid it in his diaper. We didn’t find it until he made a poo. ‘Susu, I poo on you,’ is what he told me, and I couldn’t even be mad, even though I had to put on a hazmat suit to get my phone.” A melancholy expression crosses her face. “I love kids, but raising them alone feels daunting.”

“Oh.” My interest rises. No rings on her fingers. Must be a story there, but I don’t know her well enough to ask . . .

“You’re single, I assume?”

She cocks her head.

I grimace. “Sorry, I blame my nosiness on my upbringing. My mama owns a beauty shop in Daisy, and it’s the usual to grill every woman who walks in. ‘Who are you dating? Is he employed? Does he own a home? When can I meet him?’” I laugh. “She threw me a surprise birthday party yesterday with over fifty eligible bachelors.”

“Ah, it’s fine to inquire. We’re going to be friends.”

“I’d like that.” I sensed an instant camaraderie with her the moment I walked in.

“I’ve had relationships, just none that stuck,” she continues, “mostly because I didn’t have the time to devote to anything meaningful. My first love will always be physics.”

We share a brief moment of rapport, two women who’ve worked diligently to get where they are, with goals and aspirations that sometimes don’t leave room for relationships.