One Day Fiance

Seeing nothing amiss, I go back and park, grab my go bag, and use the key Hunter gave me to open the door. I wait until the door is closed and locked before turning on a light. The living room is minimally furnished with a couch and a tv on a stand, and I can see through to the kitchen. I know the fridge will be stocked with my favorite beer and some frozen food, courtesy of Hunter. Beyond that, I’ll have to take care of things myself tomorrow.

Not a problem, but not tonight. I’m too damn tired. Instead, I arm the alarm system and head down the hall. I do a quick check of the bedrooms and bathroom before stripping for a shower. I pull on a pair of shorts and fall into bed, dreaming of the sad-faced woman from The Black Rose.

At some point, her pale face morphs into a blushing, freckled one and her hair shifts, turning bright red. The redhead who fell into me, who is probably freaking out about her missing laptop, looks so sad, like I ripped out her heart. I feel bad about that, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Chapter 6

Poppy

“Miss Woodstock?” a tall, blond man says from the doorway across the room. The clerk at the front desk doesn’t even look up as I move past her, studiously keeping her eyes on the screen in front of her though her fingers are typing in slow motion.

Then again, considering the ass-blistering tirade I gave her about ten minutes ago, she probably doesn’t want to be anywhere near me right now. I’m not saying that I’ve been living up to the stereotype about redheads being fiery tempered . . . but the clerks should be wearing fire department coats at this point. I’m not proud of it, but I am desperate and freaking the fuck out. Especially after the last two hours of being ignored by the security guards, a suggestion that perhaps I ‘forgot’ my laptop or where I put it, and then being summarily dismissed to the police station, where I’d expected to get help but instead found myself sitting and waiting for an officer to ‘have time to talk to me’.

“Yes. Thank you for seeing me, Detective,” I reply, keeping my voice as calm as possible. As I pass through the doorway and into the office area beyond, I feel his eyes on me, especially on my ass. My dress felt sophisticated and beautiful at the dinner, but now I feel too exposed and vulnerable.

Maybe it’s the officer’s covetous gaze, or maybe it’s that my bag is really missing, but tears spring to my eyes again.

Why, oh why didn’t I do the smart thing and back up my work on a thumb drive or in a cloud or somewhere? I guess I’d been so dismissive about the piss-poor quality of what I’d written and on the verge of deleting it all anyway that I didn’t want it to seem ‘final’.

“I’m Detective Jax Carter. Please sit down and tell me what’s brought you in tonight,” he orders.

“Okay, I went to the writer’s workshop hosted by J.A. Fox,” I start for what has to be the third time. I told the hotel staff and security guards, I told the patrol cops they called, and I told the clerk out front . . . do I really need to do this again?

“Right,” Detective Carter says, glancing at a piece of paper. Okay, maybe he does have the patrol officer’s report. “Says here that you’re a writer?”

“Yes,” I say as evenly as I can. “Anyway, there was a blackout, and I was pushed to the floor.”

“Yes, I see that. The security team was a bit alarmed . . . and I have to say, rightly so,” Detective Carter says. “Apparently, Ms. Fox is a bit of a celebrity.”

“It’s not like I was charging at her like a bull,” I continue, trying to stay calm at his implication that I did something wrong. “After the lights came on and the guards realized I wasn’t a threat, they helped me up from the floor.” Under my breath, I mutter, “Showing the whole room my Spanx in the process.”

Dammit, that wasn’t quiet enough, and now he’s interested. “Go on.”

“So I went back to my workstation and realized my bag was missing. I’d set it down on the table onstage for the photo, and when the lights came on, it was gone,” I conclude. “The security guards helped me look, but it had vanished. I think the other security guard took it.”

Detective Carter taps his fingers together, leaning in to listen . . . or maybe get a view of my cleavage, I’m not sure which. “Other security guard?”

“There was a security guy standing on stage. He looked up right before the lights went out, and then he was gone when the lights came back on, and so was my bag.” I hold my hands out wide like the connection is obvious.