Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
I rubbed a hand over my face. “Where was she?”
“Broke down on the side of the road. Decided to hoof it in hundred-degree heat with half a pharmacy and a tactical bag the size of a toddler. By the time Drew picked her up, she was two shades past lobster.”
I exhaled. “Jesus.”
“She’s got a mouth on her too. Snapped at me like I was the reason her car didn’t survive the Florida asphalt.”
I actually smiled at that. “Sounds like she’s still herself.”
“More or less. Adrienne and Santana are on Gabby duty until you get back.”
“ETA three hours, give or take.”
“She’ll still be red when you get here. Might even be glowing.”
I chuckled. “Thanks, Marcus.”
“Don’t thank me until you see her tan lines.”
Three hours later…
I wasn’t far from home when I passed a broken, heat-hissing Camry, pulled off to the side of the road as if it had given up mid-argument with the pavement.
I slowed, squinting as I passed. It wasn’t much to look at—an old car with a worn paint job, a trunk that was slightly misaligned, and windows that were half-cracked, as if someone had bailed in a hurry. There was no one around, but I caught a faint whiff of something burnt as I drove by. It could have been engine steam or the scent of desperation, it was hard to tell.
I reached for my phone and dialed Sasha. She answered quickly. “Is she with you?” she asked, the tension clear in her voice.
“No, but I just passed a broken-down steel grey Camry a few miles out from the ranch. You sure you said Corolla?”
“I did say Corolla,” she confirmed. “That’s what she’s had forever.”
I raised a brow and watched the Camry disappear in my rearview mirror. “You positive? Could it possibly be a Camry instead?”
There was a pause. Then, “...I mean, maybe? Is there that big of a difference between the two?”
I sighed. “The color was off, too.”
Another pause. “What’s the standard color for champagne, anyway?”
“Not grey.”
“Oops.”
I closed my eyes. “Sasha—”
“I thought it was a Corolla! I don’t pay attention to her car. It’s always been... beige. Or light-ish.”
“Congratulations, you’ve just described half the vehicles in Florida.”
She groaned on the other end. “So, it’s her car.”
“Pretty sure, yeah. I'll call you later after I've spoken to her, now that we know where she is and that she's okay.”
"Sorry about the Civic, Webb." My eye ticked at the new vehicle being thrown into the conversation. "Thanks for looking out for Gabby and helping me."
I ended the call and immediately called two of the ranch hands—Doug and Benny, both reliable and not inclined to ask too many questions if told not to.
“Need you to pick up a broken-down Camry about five miles out, heading west,” I told them. “Steel grey. Bring it back here and stash it in the east shed.”
“You got it,” Benny said. “Does it smell funny?”
“Like overheated pride.”
The sun was dropping low behind the trees as I pulled into the ranch, casting a golden glow over the pastures and long shadows across the porch. Familiar and calm, not at all the setting for the kind of chaos that usually followed a Townsend-Rossi emergency.
I parked next to Drew’s truck, grabbed my go-bag from the passenger seat, and barely made it halfway across the gravel before the front door swung open.
There she was—red as hell and wearing a too-thin t-shirt with holes that betrayed every tragic tan line she’d earned today. Her hair was under a godawful red wig, and her glasses were slipping on her nose as she shot me a glare that could burn holes in steel.
She crossed her arms the second she saw me. “Not a word,” she warned.
I raised both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Gabby narrowed her eyes. “I know you’re thinking something.”
“I said I wouldn’t say anything, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it.”
She groaned and turned back toward the house. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Right now, I do.”
“That’s fair.”
I followed her up the steps, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite everything. Gabby was sunburned, furious, dehydrated, and still throwing barbs like darts. Yeah, she was going to be just fine.
To be fair, calling her sunburned was being generous. She looked like someone who’d been microwaved, marinated in road dust, and set to simmer in shame for six hours. However, she still had that stubborn gleam in her eye when I sat her down on the porch and watched her take a large mouthful of her water.
“Sasha and the rest of your family are worried sick about you.”
She blinked behind those smudged glasses, tucked her knees up against her chest, and took another long, stalling sip.
“Look, I’m fine,” she said eventually, “really. I’m just avoiding a few... situations. Some debt collectors. It’s nothing criminal, just aggressive phone calls and the occasional letter with a fake court stamp.”