One Day Fiance

“We’re not engaged,” I growl as I pull the mug from her hand, setting it in the sink for a scrub down before my morning refuel, and she sets the Rubik’s cube down on the stack of boxes. “We need to talk.”

“Ya think?” she sasses, hand cocked on a thrown-out hip. “Let’s start with . . . where the fuck is my laptop?”

“Nope. Start with your name.”

Her eyes narrow, and she brushes that lock of hair back in a bratty move, huffing out, “Like you don’t know.” When I look at her expectantly, she freezes. “Wait . . . you really don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Then why’d you steal my laptop?”

She thinks this is about her computer and not her bag. I might have a way to salvage this. “Long story.”

“A-ha!” she shouts triumphantly, pointing a finger at me. “You admitted it. I should call the cops on you.”

Dammit, but I had to take this particular risk. When her declaration is matched with zero movement, I realize that I’ve still got plays to make. She doesn’t trust or like the cops, perhaps? Interesting. Maybe Sexy Red’s got a bad girl side to her. I look at her expectantly and she gives in.

“Poppy Woodstock.”

I snort. I’ve been jumped and am talking to a walking meme. “Of course. Poppy.” I look her over, taking special note of the mane of red hair. It’s not poppy colored, at least not the orange-red California poppies I’m thinking of, but something about her seems vibrant and lively like a field of her namesake.

“That’s right . . . Connor,” she reminds me. “So now that we both know names, I want to know why you stole my stuff!”

With a sigh, I pick up my phone again and click a few buttons. “What do you eat on your pizza?” I ask as it rings. “Might as well, you know?”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Never too early for pizza.”

“Good point,” she says easily, as if what I just said makes perfect sense and isn’t a dodge to try and gain some more time. “Sausage and jalapeños.”

Totally not surprised. I’m also not surprised that she’s quick on her feet . . . another point in her favor. I’m the sort of person to stockpile personalities, quirks, habits, and routines about people the way most folks study for college exams. It’s a skill I’ve perfected over years of practice and has come in handy more than a few times.

I order the pizza, giving the address I’ve already memorized. “It’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

Going over, I pull out a beer from the fridge and offer her one. To my surprise, she takes it from me without a word about the before-noon hour, but before she gets it too far away, I twist the top off. She smiles in appreciation and I lift one shoulder an inch.

I’m not a total cretin.

I’m not a gentleman either.

Never had a need to be.

“Sooo . . .” she drags out, rocking from her toes to her heels, “about my laptop?”

I sip at my own beer, trying to decide how I can explain this without mentioning The Black Rose. In the end, being ‘partially completely honest’ seems like the best angle. “I took it. I gave it to a guy.”

“You gave it away?” she sputters. “You know how important that laptop is?”

“Well, it was nice,” I admit, thinking about how JP reacted last night, “but relax. I can get it back. I think.”

She spits out her own sip and barks, “You think? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I think I can get it back,” I repeat more slowly. “I know who I gave it to, and I know his plans for it.”

She steps forward bravely, or with zero regard for her own safety—I haven’t decided which yet—and growls up at me, “I need it back. It has my manuscript on it and I’m on a deadline.”

I hold my hands out up, showing I mean no harm. At least not right now. “Tell me about the manuscript.”

She sags heavily, wind dropping out of her sails in a heartbeat. “I’m an author. The J.A. Fox dinner was a big deal for me until it all went to Satan’s asshole when you showed up.” She glares at me again before continuing, “That manuscript is my baby, one I’ve worked on for months. There’s blood, sweat, and tears in those pages. I have to finish it and turn it in by the beginning of the month or I’m done-for. Dead woman walking.”

She drags a thumb across her neck, but I don’t think she means literally unless she’s got a really fucked-up publisher with mob ties. Hmm, I wonder if that exists? I mean, it could. Mobsters read . . . probably.

After all, Mr. Big is an art aficionado and a man who can kill without remorse.