Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I only just met him. He’s a nice guy—not to mention gorgeous—and this way maybe I’ll keep my mind off Henry for the next couple of days before I go back to Boulder.
I dress, look into the mirror.
Massage hair, of course. Stephen did an amazing scalp massage, so I’ll have to shower again to get all the oil out of my hair.
But it was so worth it. I’m feeling so, so relaxed.
I walk out of the massage room, and Stephen is waiting for me up front by the register.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask.
“Normal charge is ninety dollars for an hour,” he says. “But for you? Only forty-five. That’s what I have to pay Willow.”
“Stephen, I’m willing to pay what I owe you.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it.” He flashes me a dazzling smile. “I’m just very happy I met you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” I pull out my credit card, and he runs it. I add a very generous tip. He gives me a card with his cell phone number on it, and I text him the address for Angie’s parents’ place.
“Just come by the house at seven o’clock tonight,” I tell him. “I’ll let Angie and Jason know you’re coming.”
“And you’re absolutely sure it will be okay?”
“Certainly. I’m positive. But let me text Angie just to make sure.”
She texts me back instantly.
Of course. The more the merrier!
I show it to Stephen. “See? This is from the bride herself. Just like I told you.”
“I’m honored, then. I’ll see you tonight. What should I wear?”
“Tonight is casual,” I say. “I’ll be in a sundress. Jeans and a button down would be good.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there. And, Tabitha?”
“Yeah?”
He offers me a smoldering smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Twenty
Henry
I look at Jason, my head slightly cocked.
That question about finding my mother? It came out of nowhere.
“You could say I’m pretty serious about finding her,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think I am. If only to see her. Find out about her family. It would be good to know where I came from. I’m lucky that I haven’t inherited my paternal grandfather’s issues, but who knows what’s hiding on my birth mother’s side?”
“Henry, I already told you that—”
“I know, I know.” I hold up a hand. “But yeah, I think I want to know. Our family has a bunch of private investigators on retainer. I’ll just contact one of them.”
“You may not need to,” he says.
I lift my eyebrows.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at investigating,” he says. “If you know her name and her approximate age, we shouldn’t have any trouble finding her.”
I scratch my head. “You’re probably right. Everything can be found online these days.”
“Of course, if you want to use one of your private investigators, you certainly can. They’ll have access to things I don’t.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You could be right. But if I do that, my father and my uncles might find out what I’m up to. And if my mom—my real mom, the one who raised me—found out about it, she’d be heartbroken.”
“If you want to be discreet, any investigator worth his salt will keep everything private for you. Even if they work for your family.”
“True… But when it comes to the Steels, secrets tend to rise to the surface. So maybe it’s better to keep my family out of it.”
“Okay,” Jason says. “After the wedding, and after Angie and I get back from our honeymoon, I’ll be happy to help you.”
“Thanks, Jason.”
We drive back to my parents’ house, not talking a lot. Again, fine by me.
We get back and Jason excuses himself, so I grab Zach and head to my room where I fire up my laptop.
I sit on the edge of my bed and type her name slowly, like if I go too fast it’ll jinx the whole thing.
Francine Stokes Las Vegas Showgirl
The search bar blinks at me like it’s waiting for something more. Like it wants details I don’t have. All I’ve got is a name, a city, and the vague knowledge that she cheated on my dad, left without a fight, and signed away full custody.
I hit Enter.
Dozens of links pop up—some old news clippings, show flyers, grainy YouTube videos with sparkly costumes and fake smiles. I click on one. A line of dancers glides across the stage, feathers high, legs higher. I squint at each face, trying to see something familiar. A tilt of the head. A curve of the mouth. Something that might live in my own face when I’m not paying attention.
Nothing.
Back to the search.
There’s a photo on an old casino website—Francine Stokes, billed third under the headliner, wearing a red sequined bodysuit and a smile so bright it almost hurts to look at. She’s beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, narrow waist, long legs. A total knockout.
And completely unrecognizable.
I don’t know this woman.
I don’t know what she sounds like, smells like, whether she bites her lip when she’s nervous or loves baseball like I do. I don’t know if she ever looked back after she walked away.