Wasted Love with You (Wasted Love 1)

I stop walking, blushing all over, and he lets out a low laugh.

“Buy a whiteboard and write, ‘For the Rochester Estate, E.R.’ on it,” he says. “And buy a few magazines, too. It’ll make your wait in baggage claim go by faster.”

“I’ll do that,” are the only words I can manage.

“Good.” He ends the call, and I walk over to the wall of bestselling novels.

As I’m picking up a copy of John Grisham’s latest, I remember Kylie.

Shit.

Scrolling down to her name, I hit call.

“Why do they have to make everyone suffer for one asshole’s mistake?” she answers on the first ring.

“Huh?”

“I was just about to call you.” She groans. “Some jerk decided to get up and pull on the emergency door mid-flight, so we’re stranded in Colorado for the day.”

“Oh…”

“They’re offering refunds, so I think I’ll just—” She pauses. “I’ll rent a car and meet you in Seattle, okay? Would you mind if I stay at your place while we talk?”

“Kylie, you can just tell me what you have to say about him over the phone.”

“It isn’t safe.” She lowers her voice. “Can I come to your place or not?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Great. Text me the address.”

“Will do, but Kylie…” I look over my shoulder, making sure no one is around. Then I decide to play dumb. “Do you think this guy is in the mafia or something?”

“If it was something like that, I would’ve sent you a text and said, ‘Enjoy the sex,’” she says. “This is way bigger, and it’s about him and Nate.”

“What?”

“I don’t think I have this wrong. I mean, bits and pieces may be off here or there, but I think…” she starts but stops, and the memory of finding Ryder’s business card in Nate’s dresser drawer suddenly crosses my mind.

Why doesn’t he want me to know how they’re connected?

“Text me your address,” she says softly. “I’ll send you my driving updates the whole way.”

She ends the call, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up all over again.

“It’s about him and Nate…”

Just when I think I might be stable, that things might be okay with him, my heart gets thrown into another tailspin.

Taking a few deep breaths, I send Kylie my address and try not to think too deeply. Whatever she’s found, I’ll know soon enough, and there’s no point in driving myself crazy with anticipation.

I pick up two more books, grab the latest copy of The Magnolia Journal, and head toward baggage claim.

Two Hours Later

The sign that I designed over coffee is seconds away from falling onto the floor.

I’ve traced the word “Rochester” with every colored marker that came with the whiteboard, and it has done nothing to make time pass by any faster.

All three of the bestselling novels I purchased feature ‘organized crime’ for their subplots, and I can’t bear to think about that right now.

That’s what I deserve for not reading the blurbs.

The bell above the baggage carousel suddenly rings for the umpteenth time—signaling a new flight arrival—and a fresh horde of passengers rushes down the hallway.

Picking up my sign, I stand and take my place in line with the personal drivers.

As usual, tons of people pass me without a second glance, and within ten minutes, only a few passengers are left waiting.

I sigh and pull out my phone, sending Ryder a text.

Me: This would be a lot easier if you told me what I was looking for.

His response is immediate.

Ryder: You’ll know when you see it. Buy another magazine.

Right.

A man in dark blue jeans walks toward me, but he makes an abrupt left turn and moves to the woman next to me.

He sweeps her into his arms and kisses her like no one is watching.

Before I can walk away and return to my seat, a man dressed in an all-grey suit rolls a massive cello case next to me.

He sets it upright, and then he walks away.

“Is this it?” I call out. “Hey!”

He doesn’t turn around.

Seconds later, a different grey suit steers a beautiful silver luggage cart in front of me. He places the cello on it, right next to four other violin cases.

Then he tips his hat at me and walks away.

Confused, I pick up the top case, checking for extra security locks or seals.

There aren’t any, so I slide my hand under the buckle and pop it open.

It’s just a violin…

I press my fingers against the padding, waiting to feel something that’s hiding, but there’s nothing.

This is his most important asset? How do I get these to the jet?

“You’re missing the letter ‘A.’” A beautiful young girl with dark brown hair points to my sign, smiling. “You should always write it with that word.”

I look at the sign, then back at her. “There’s no ‘A’ in Rochester. Trust me.”

“There is an A, and an extra ‘R.’” She tilts her head to the side. “I know what the words are supposed to look like.”