Page 32 of Fated Love with You

Because you decided to fly home on short notice… You still need to practice.

I asked her to go home early. Is that okay?

No.

I set down my phone and sigh.

“Come in, Adeline,” I say, sensing that she’s right outside my door.

The door creaks open, and her leather shoes peek through with her violin. Then she smiles at me like she hasn’t done anything wrong, like her being home is completely normal.

“I pay Miss Liane a very good salary to keep an eye on you whenever you come home,” I say. “You’re not in charge of when she comes and goes.”

“I know.”

“And I put you in the best school for musicians so you can learn from the best,” I say. “You can’t learn when you’re here.”

“Why can’t you teach me?”

“Because you’re a far better player than I ever was, or I’ll ever be,” I say, meaning every word of that. “You need to be with people who can dedicate all their time to you.”

“I’m just asking you to listen to me play for a few hours.” Her eyes meet mine, and the guilt immediately hits my chest.

The rest of my list can wait.

For now.

“You can have my entire afternoon.” I motion for her to position her bow. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, then glances at the freeze-frame of Autumn’s video on my laptop. “Is Miss Jane a real employee or…”

“Or what?”

“A girlfriend?” She beams. “I think you like her.”

“Start your piece, Adeline.”

She sets her bow, then pauses. “Is Miss Jane going to disappear like the other lady?”

I still, my fingers curling slightly. “Play, Adeline. Now…”

That evening

I tuckwhat little softness I have under my coat and step in front of an abandoned row of warehouses outside the city.

With a perfect view of the ocean, it’s flanked by a spaghetti restaurant that never serves customers and a bank that never accepts deposits.

It’s where I always watch the final descent of the plane that carries Adeline. It’s also where I have to deal with unfortunate things like this…

Walking through the side doors with four of my men behind me, I head into an open freezer.

The truck driver who recently stole from me—Austin Blaine—is sitting in a steel chair, surrounded by hanging meat.

“I guess I’d be trembling if I were in your shoes,” I say. “Especially if I’d given secrets about my boss to his rival in Miami—not to mention stealing from him.”

“What?” His face pales. “No, sir. I would never.”

“You would, and you did,” I say. “It’s the only way they could’ve known about my new courier and where she would be.”