Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Only to have him kiss me.
It happened so fast, I thought it was an accident at first.
And it was over before I had a chance to process it.
“What was that?” I ask, laughing to lighten the awkwardness.
“Sorry, for some reason I thought you were going in for a kiss?” His cheeks turn a deep and undeniable shade of beet red. “I’m so sorry, Rossi …”
I pat his chest. “Don’t sweat it …”
Showing myself out before anything gets any weirder between us, I trek home—replaying that innocent but awkward little peck in my head a few times. There’s no way he thought I was going in for a kiss. We weren’t flirting. We weren’t talking about anything remotely romantic. Nothing about our exchange would’ve remotely implied that I wanted to kiss him …
Did he do that on purpose?
But he seemed embarrassed …
Kicking off my shoes, I leave my ear buds on the foyer table and attempt to work for the next two hours so I don’t have to think about what just happened.
I’m two minutes from logging off when an email pings my inbox from my contact at the DNA site. I’d overnighted Fabian’s sample last week and sent the loveliest email to her, asking if she could expedite the processing. Normally I wouldn’t ask for favors, but since he’s only here a short time, I wanted to see if I couldn’t speed things up.
I click on the subject line.
Dear Rossi—
As requested, I was able to rush the processing of your friend’s submission. For privacy purposes, I’ve entered him into the system as USER82765. You can access his results via your account when you’re ready.
Best of luck!
Caitlyn Morrow
Founder and CEO of AncestryFinder
* * *
These kinds of emails are the “Christmas morning” part of my job. The rush of excitement. The promise of what’s inside. The mystery. I live for these emails and they never get old.
Logging into my account, I pull up Fabian’s information and feast my eyes on all of the connections that propagate the page. There must be at least twenty-five 2nd-3rd cousins and fifty 4-5th cousins. An excellent start.
For the hour that follows, I copy and paste the same message to every last one of his genetic connections. It’s a spammy shot in the dark, but this is always step one.
Hello!
My name is Rossi Bianco, and I’m a genealogist in High Valley, Illinois. I’m currently searching for Francesca Catalano on behalf of a private client who has been matched to your genetic profile. If you have any information as to how or where I could find Francesca (who also goes by the name Frankie), that would be greatly appreciated.
Respectfully,
Rossi Bianco, BCG
Bianco Genealogy
Logging out, I shut my laptop and call it a day.
And what a day it has been …
Chapter 28
Fabian
* * *
It’s been over twenty-four hours since I last spoke to Rossi. Despite the two thousand miles that separate us, she’s been dancing circles in my head since the second my jet went wheels-up over Chicago.
Lying in bed, I pull up my phone and tap out a text: LANDING TOMORROW MORNING … CAN’T WAIT TO SEE MY GIRLS.
I hit send and watch the read receipt stay on ‘read’ for the following hour.
Sitting up, I fling the covers off and pace my room. A room that’s ridiculously, laughably large. One fit for royalty or Silicon Valley billionaires who ran out of stupid shit to blow their money on. This entire house is ostentatious and showy, the kind of thing a man buys when his ego is so gaping and empty he needs to shove something inside it to feel something.
The pool below reflects the moon above, and beyond that the ocean tide rolls gentle. It’s a multi-million dollar view, no question. Four years ago I got into a nasty bidding war over this property. It was one of the only beachfront estates with room for a full tennis court. Ended up paying twenty percent more than what it was worth, but with the market the way it is lately, I could sell it for a lot more than that.
Regardless, what good is a man’s money if he has no one to spend it on?
A man could shove his soul full of thousand dollar bills and still feel that gnawing emptiness at the end of the day.
I make a mental note to call my attorneys tomorrow and have them draft up a new will. Everything I own, everything I’ll ever own—I want it to go to my daughter when I’m gone. And if the child Tatum is carrying turns out to be mine, they’ll get their share as well.
Still, all the money in the world couldn’t buy me the one thing I want—Rossi.
Pulling up her number, I press the green button. With the first ring, my heart hammers in my ears, whooshing with adrenaline and anticipation. With the second ring, I bite my thumbnail. With the third, I hold my breath. After the fourth, I’m met with her voice—but not her.