“Duly noted.” He tugs his wrist free from my grip. “You’re excused, Ms. Ransom.”
4
Temperance
As if through Mount’s will, my tears dry up.
I’m not dead, and I have to quit acting like it.
This is the second time in a year that I’ve been violently reminded that life is short.And look where me seizing the moment got me last time.
Looking for a club where I could indulge my dirtiest fantasies, but not finding one. Then accidentally stumbling upon one and living out my fantasies with a stranger. A stranger who ended up being not just a hit man, but a hit man who had a contract to kill my brother—and promised not to fulfill that contract.
Never trust a hit man. You’d think that would be obvious, but apparently not when your name is Temperance Ransom.
I push all that aside and stare at the blank sheet in front of me.
It’s time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do next. Living in a fog of grief isn’t going to work. Rafe would be so pissed at me.
Well, I’m pissed at you too, Rafe.You should have never taken that job.
I shut down that thought too.
What happened is done. Now all that’s left is for me to move forward, no matter how badly I want to curl up in a ball and let myself wither away.
I’m done withering. It’s time tolive.
Squeezing the pencil between my fingers, I think of what I want most—other than my brother back.And the other thing I refuse to put into words because I can’t possibly want it.
My mind stays completely blank.
Wow. Failing at dreaming. Excellent.
I toss the pencil down and walk to the cupboard and open it. The shelf where I keep my alcohol is empty.
Harriet.
Knowing the old woman, she only took it because she wants to draw me out of my apartment if I want to drink, not actually prevent me from drinking.
She’s wily.
I stalk back to the table to snatch up the paper and pencil and head for the door.
If she’s going to rob me of my booze, she may as well help me figure out where the hell I go from here.
This time,instead of opera, she’s listening to Tupac when I open the back door.
“Harriet?”
She looks up from the easel in the middle of the living room where she’s painting. “Steal the booze and she will come. That’s what I always say.”
I nod at the easel. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, I’m just inventing a new school of painting. I call it West Coast Modern.”
Of course she is.Why wouldn’t she? This woman has probably lived more in one year than I have in my entire life.
She notices the paper in my hand. “Grocery list?”