The Casanova (The Miles High Club 3)

“Hello.” An elderly woman smiles.

“Hi.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Just looking,” I reply. I walk through the cross-stitch section and smile sadly as I look at all the patterns. My mum would have loved this shop.

When I was a teenager we used to spend hours together in the garden house, and she would do her cross-stitch and I would paint. We would laugh and talk and listen to music. I smile as I remember making her play Taylor Swift on repeat for hours and hours.

I pick up a cross-stitch pattern of a duck and I smile as I think of Elliot and his girls. Maybe I should learn how to do cross-stitch? It could be an ode to my mum. I look through all the patterns, but end up back at the ducks.

I want this one; I liked those bat-shit crazy ducks of Elliot’s. I remember the day they attacked him and it brings a smile to my face. I tuck the packet under my arm and keep looking.

“All the art supplies are marked down by fifty percent,” the old lady calls.

“Oh, thanks.” I keep walking. “I haven’t painted since high school.”

“You should start again, it’s the best therapy.” She smiles.

Hmm, I guess it could be. I mean, if I’m learning how to cross-stitch, I guess I could paint a picture too. I’m totally crap at it . . . but it would make me feel close to Mum, by association.

She always loved my paintings, said every new painting I did was her new favorite. Isn’t that what all mums say to their kids about their hideous hobbies?

I pick up a packet of paintbrushes and a starter pack of ten tubes of paint, go to the back and look through the canvases. Shit . . . these are expensive.

Did Mum really pay this much? I smile, knowing exactly why she did: so that I would sit with her while she did her cross-stitch. There was a method to her madness, after all.

I pick up a small canvas, which will be easier to fit into the bin when I fuck it up.

I take my things to the cashier, and I feel really excited for tomorrow. When I get back from the beach, I’m going to start learning how to do my cross-stitch, just like Mum. How fun.

ELLIOT

“Your paintings have arrived, Mr. Miles,” Andrew says from the door.

I look up from my computer. “What?”

“Your Harriet collection has arrived out of storage, I know how much you missed it.”

I run my hand through my hair in disgust. “Oh.” I pause.

I don’t want to be anywhere near those paintings; I left Kate for those.

All they do is remind me of what I no longer have.

My girl.

“Umm.” I pause as I try to articulate my answer. “My apologies, Andrew, can you have them delivered to my apartment in London please?”

Andrew’s face falls. “But—”

“But nothing,” I cut him off. “I don’t want them in this house.”

He frowns as he stares at me.

“That is all, Andrew,” I snap, dismissing him.

“Very well, sir.”

I inhale a shaky breath and go back to my computer.

This is fucked.

KATE

I walk up the road to my house and see a car pulled up outside. I frown and, as I get closer, I see it’s a mail delivery van.

“Can I help you?” I ask the driver.

“Yes, I’m looking for a Pinkie Leroo, does she live here?”

My heart skips a beat; he knows where I am.

Is he here? My eyes flick around suspiciously. “What do you have for her?” I ask.

“A letter.” He holds up a red envelope and I can see Elliot’s handwriting on the front of it.

Oh . . .

“Yes, I’m Pinkie,” I reply.

“Can I get you to sign here? It’s certified.”

“Sure.” Damn control freak wants to make sure I got it. I sign for it and he hands it over.

“Bye Pinkie,” he says as he gets into his car.

“Thanks. Bye.”

I look at the letter in my hand.

Miss Pinkie Leroo

98 Grosvenor Street

Mayweather, Oahu.

I turn it over and look at the back for the sender.

Edgar Moffatt

Garbologist Extraordinaire

Enchanted Kingdom

I smirk. Garbologist extraordinaire . . . idiot.

I walk back inside and put the envelope on the countertop.

I’m not reading it.

It’s 11 p.m. when I walk in the door and I go straight to the envelope and pick it up. Work was so busy tonight and I was torturing myself the entire shift wondering what this says.

How does he know where I am?

I pick up the envelope and stare at it. What does he want? There’s only one way to find out.

Fuck it.

I tear open the envelope.

My dearest Pinkie,

In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.

To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.