His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

We’ll probably be great friends for a few weeks,” I say with a laugh. “And where are we going? I don’t know, Hobart. I’m new to the area. I’m in the mood for a good meal. Take me someplace nice.”

“There ain’t nothing nice ’round here, but the next town over has a nice little area. Lotsa bars and restaurants. How far are you willing to go?”

“Well, how far is it? I don’t want to be an hour away from my fantastic living situation. But take me anywhere that a girl can sit at the bar alone and have a nice meal with a glass of wine and not be considered a prostitute.”

He chuckles. “Nah, not in that area. And you’re lookin’ at ten minutes. This side of town has the bus depot, so it gets the colorful people—I mean the real colorful people. The runaways, the whack jobs, the druggies—” He looks at me in his rearview mirror. “—the people hiding stuff.”

Ahhhh, Hobart, you crafty devil, you. He knows I don’t belong here. I’m quiet the rest of the ride, if only to appear mysterious now. Take that, Hobart.

Hobart assures me he’ll be available for a ride later if I need one, my own personal Uber and bodyguard. The restaurant he recommends and drops me in front of looks like a classy wine bar from the outside. Asshole used to take me to a similar place in town. I open the door and survey the area as I step out of the cab. The place isn’t very busy for a Friday night, which I welcome. Behind the bar, there are violet lights, amethyst if you will, uplighting the bottles against the mirrored wall, giving the place a jazzy vibe. I take my place on a leather bar stool, the kind that has a small spot you can lean back on, and I slip out of my denim jacket, laying it across the stool beside me.

I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I’m in dire need of—

“Welcome to Wine Loft.”

His tag says Damon, and he playfully slings a cardboard coaster with the restaurant’s name and logo in front of me, then smiles when it lands just so at the tip of my fingers.

I’ve had bartenders before. Usually from the local watering holes that serve dollar beers and host dollar wing nights. Those from the past wore beer-logo T-shirts, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, and we’d do a shot or two, flirt, another shot, and I’d be counting ceiling tiles. Most of them were nice, until you did something without their permission, then the jealous rages always came out. Plus, they were alcoholics for the most part. Violent, small-town, trailer-living alcoholics.

Damon wears a long-sleeved black button down, with the wrists folded back, and I see the outline of a tattoo on his left arm peeking out of the cuff. His black pants and belt fit exactly right, and there’s no ring on his finger. His dark hair is swooped off his forehead, making my stomach flutter. Dark hair is my thing. Every last Asshole had dark hair.

“What do you suggest, Damon?” I ask.

He looks at me funny, then at his own name tag. “Ahhh, yes. I’m Damon. You’ve robbed me of the opportunity to introduce myself.” His smile is killer. Clean. Straight, white teeth. “What can I get for you?”

An open-ended question if I ever heard one.

7

James

James waited as Trey walked across the beige bank floor, past James’s office where he tipped his head as a good morning, and headed into his own office. The best course of action was to get it over with. He waited until he heard the regular morning sounds—Trey’s plastic coffee mug he came in with every morning hitting the desk, the squeak of the chair spinning, and a few buttons being tapped on the keyboard indicating Trey logging into the system. James stood and flattened his pants, then walked over.

Trey’s door was open, and he had just taken his seat when James stood under the doorframe and knocked on the wall outside the entrance, even though his head was already poking in.

“Got a minute?”

Trey’s dark eyes peered through his glasses. He looked the same as he always did—pants, collared shirt, sweater vest. Those damn sweater vests, even in the summer. Tall and dark-skinned, he gave off a Carlton Banks vibe. Probably danced the same too. His frown indicated frustration at James’s presence. Things had been weird between them for the last couple of months. Since the incident.

He flung open a folder and scattered papers around, using the George Costanza method of look-annoyed-and-they’ll-think-you’re-busy, but Trey probably was annoyed.

“Right now?” he said, grabbing a pen.

“It’s important.”

James entered the office, bigger than his own and with two windows. A corner office, naturally. He shut the door behind him and took a seat on one of the big leather chairs in front of his desk. Trey’s office was decorated differently than James’s. He’d offered up Tessa’s expertise, but Trey was clearly afraid of color. The beige surrounding didn’t stand out from the rest of the bank. There were no plants, no knickknacks. One photo of him and his wife, Aleesha, and not even a wedding photo—one of them on a boat, on one of the annual vacations they took back to the Bahamas to visit her family. On one wall, he had an American flag, and on the other, a picture of the current president. Politics aside, he thought it was good for business to show unity.

“I need to talk to you about something,” James said.

Trey took off his glasses and pinched the top of his nose. “This again?”

“No. Not that.” James should’ve known it was going to be about Rosita and the—inappropriateness that went on. That had already been addressed, and even though it didn’t stop, James knew better than to get Trey involved again. “Listen, I’m only going to be here for a few hours today. I have to get home. Tessa. She’s—” She’s what? James still struggled. “She’s missing. She wasn’t