Page 122 of That Fake Feeling

Hestops next to her and holds out his hand to me. “Hi.”

Igive it a cursory shake to try to get this the hell over with and back to where the fuckRosecould have gone.

“I’mRobScanlon,” he says. “I’minIT.Ifyou ever need a good technician, just give me a shout.”

Hehands me a flimsy business card.Oneof the joys of owning a thriving company is constantly being hit up for a job.

“Thanks.”Ishove the card into my back pocket.

“She’sdone well for herself, huh,Rob?”Brittneynudges him and runs her eyes over me from top to bottom, likeI’msome sort of exhibit that can’t hear or see her.

“Oh, yes,” he says, looking at me with admiration. “BigBrainToysis a fantastic business.Afterwe saw you andRosein the magazine,Idid some research into the company, andInoticed that—”

“Thanks.”Tohell with this guy for trying to manipulate the situation and turn it into an impromptu interview. “So, any clue whereRosemight be?”

Brittneyshakes her head. “Noidea.It’snot like she has any close friends.”Sheturns her mouth down at the corners. “It'skinda sad.Nofamily either.”

Therealization hits me like a lightning bolt, making my heart rate skyrocket. “Oh, myGod.Yes.Nofamily.Yes.Thankyou.”

Brittneylooks atRoband raises her eyebrows.

AsIjog back down the hallway,Robcalls out, “Giveme a shout any time if you need anITtechnician.”

Ikeep going.Ineed to get home and figure out how to get toCatastrophe.

OnceI’vefigured out where the fuck it is.

* * *

Apartfrom a couple of hours sleep on the first private jetIcould get toSeattle,I’mrunning on coffee and adrenaline.AndIcan’t suppress the rising sense of panic thatImight be about to make a total fool of myself.

Whatif she won’t see me?WhatifIcan’t even find her?

I’dhoped there’d be a small airfield closer toCatastrophewhere a private plane could land, but no,Seattlewas the nearest.

Afterbooking the flight,I’dspent most of the night organizing a surpriseIhope will light upRose’sface.AndIcould never have pulled it together withoutWalker’shelp.

Ipick at the wrapping on the package next to me on the back seat of the limo thatSandyarranged to pick me up whenIlanded.

Asthe road winds through the tall, lush, green trees that almost brush the heavy gray sky, buildings start to come into view on the hill up ahead.

“Almostthere, now,” the driver says. “Twenty-two years of airport runs, and this is the first timeI’veever been asked to take anyone up here.”

It’sthe third time he’s told me that.Likehe can’t believeI’mnot making a mistake.

“Isthere somewhere specific you’d like me to drop you?Yourbooking just saidCatastrophe, no actual address.”

Irest my hand on the back of his seat and lean forward to try to see farther ahead.

“Thereshould be a coffee shop.AtleastIhope there’s only one, or this could be more confusing thanIthought.”

“Oh, there’ll be only one.Thisplace has just the one downtown street, so it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Weclimb the hill, pass a couple of houses, and enter what probably constitutes downtown—a row of red brick buildings on either side of the street, many with bright, hand-painted signs.There’sCatastropheCrafts,CatastropheConvenience, and a stationery store calledCatastropheCards.

“Maybethat’s it?”Thedriver points up ahead to where a sign in the shape of a steaming mug hangs out from the wall—Catastrophein aCupSince1997.Aswe get closer,IspyCatastropheCoffeeetched on the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“That’sit,”Isay, thumping the back of his seat.