Page 63 of Resisting His Charm
“Good. I like her.”
“You do?”
“Yes, she makes you smile and she’s hot. You guys are going to make such cute babies,” Imogen says.
“Slow down. I’m just going to talk to her, not propose marriage and kids,” I say.
“Sure, you’regoing to talk. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Imogen laughs. “Oh god, I miss sex. I better not die before I get laid again.”
“Imogen, not funny,” I groan.
“What? The dying or the sex?”
“The dying.”
“Okay, well, I miss sex. You think there’s a dating app for sick people? Like Tinder for the ill?”
“I doubt it. And you should focus on resting. You’re going to start treatment soon, and before you know it, you’re going to be good as new, Imogen.”
“Yeah,” she says but I know she doesn’t believe it.
“I love you. I have to go.”
“Love you too. Bring her back.” Imogen cuts the call.
I read every bit of information Elias and my mother gave me during the flight over. I caved and went back to my apartment to retrieve the file my mother handed to me weeks ago. I didn’t want to. I wanted to learn about Poppy from Poppy. That’s a bit fucking hard to do when she runs.
She’s had a lot of loss. I now understand why her walls were so fucking hard to break through. But I demolished them. I just need to remind her how much she wants me. I don’t care what I have to do to get her back onboard with the idea of us. Which is why I picked her lock to let myself into her new apartment, since she hasn’t given me a key yet.
I’ve been sitting in her living room for an hour, waiting for her to show up. I have no idea where she is or what she’s doing.I really should have put a tracker on her or on her phone. Something I’ll be rectifying as soon as I can.
I’ve been using my time to start digging into what actually happened to her mother. Because what she believes—what the dirty fucking cop who filed this report told her—is bullshit. The report states that her mother responded to a domestic violence call. When she arrived, she walked in on a cartel drug drop. The De la Sangre Cartel, according to the paperwork.
Her mother was shot, execution-style, with her own weapon. A gun that was never found. The only witness to the event was her partner, who claims he went around back and that by the time he got onto the property, she was already dead. You see, I know this report is bullshit because the cartel my uncle runs isn’t fucking sloppy. There is no way they would have left a witness behind. Also, they don’t do drops in rundown houses in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Something is off with the partner. My money is on that fucker being the one who killed Poppy’s mother. It’s thewhythat I need to find out. So far, I’ve come up empty. On paper, he appears to be a middle-aged, divorced father of three. His ex-wife and kids moved two months before Poppy’s mother died. It looks like I’m going to have to take another trip to Texas to question the asshole myself.
A sheriff? Yep, I’m considering torturing information out of a small-town sheriff. Not something I’ve done before, but I will if I have to. I tend to steer clear of pigs. I like keeping my name as far off their radar as possible. Although, when your last name is Russo in Vegas, you’re never really off the radar of the cops, unless you’re paying to be kept off it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’ve scouted three retail spaces for my new spa today. I’m exhausted. All of them were beautiful but extremely out of my budget. I think I underestimated the costs of moving to LA. I’m determined not to fail, though. The last three days, although lonely, have been refreshing. It’s nice not to be followed by ghosts.
I feel like I could make this my new home. There’s so many people here, and yet not once have I seen the look of pity on anyone’s face. I’m not the orphan girl in this town. I’m just another random woman in the crowd, and I like it.
If I could stop thinking about a certain someone, whose name I won’t mention, my life would be almost perfect. I’m still not sleeping properly. I barely knew the guy and yet something deep inside me feels so empty without him. It’s stupid. I hate feeling this insane need to reach out to him.
Thankfully, I have no intention of doing that. I won’t cave. No matter how much I miss him. I can’t be with someone who’s so close to the cartel responsible for my mother’s death. I might not be able to do anything about getting justice for her, but I can stay well clear from the people who took her from me.
I push the key into the door of my new rental. It’s a small apartment, but it’s nice enough. And so far, the neighbors seem pretty quiet. I’ve spent my nights on video calls to Alice and my cousins, but once I’m off the phone, the loneliness sets in. I’m thinking it’s only going to last a little while, a bit of homesickness. It’s normal. I just have to ride it through.
Hopefully, the exhaustion takes over tonight and I sleep without waking up looking for a warm body next to me.
I turn the handle and step into my apartment. My eyes land on the dark figure sitting on the sofa in my living room, and my heart speeds up. Sammie. I slam the door shut and calmly walk farther into the space, my eyes locked on his. Either I’ve finally lost it and am now conjuring up his image… or he’s actually here.
Why now? I haven’t heard from him since I left Vegas. He never texted, never tried to call, nothing. And now he’s here in the living room of a new apartment he shouldn’t even know about.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, and then mentally slap myself. He’s a criminal. Of course, a locked door isn’t going to keep him out.
