Page 164 of Breaking Rosalind
The line falls silent, save for his rasping breath. I can almost imagine the gears turning in his addled head. I should hang up, leave the cafe and return to the boutique. He asked for a phone call, and I complied. But the Galliano brothers never know how to quit.
After a gut-churning silence, he finally speaks. “You can’t outrun your blood,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “It always finds a way back.”
The line goes dead, and I collapse against the wall. If his knowledge about my life extended beyond my exes, he would know about Miranda and Rosalind. That he didn’t bring them up means they’re safe.
I return to the boutique, where the girls are sorting out an array of clothing with the salesclerk. The bell rings as I enter, and Miranda turns to me, her mood lifting.
The soft classical music and soothing scents of lavender and vanilla aroma do little to ease my nerves. But the sight of Miranda striding toward me with a bright smile pushes thoughts of Galliano to the background.
“You came back,” she says, her eyes as mournful as an abandoned puppy.
My chest tightens. Is it my imagination or does Miranda need me as a buffer between her and Rosalind? It’s impossible to tell, since I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in her position. I rub the back of my head and grimace.
“Sorry, love. Problems at work.”
Her needy expression melts, giving way to eyes so sparkling that I preen in the light of her admiration.
“Problems at your nightclub?” she asks.
“Something like that,” I mutter, not wanting to sour her mood with talk of Galliano. I flick my head to the other side of the boutique, where it looks like Rosalind is trying to reduce the pile of items Miranda chose. “Find anything nice, love?”
She shuffles on her feet, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry about my sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“She means well, but she can be a bitch.”
A bitch.
Rosalind is a mother. A survivor. The only woman who captures my attention so completely. No one, not even Miranda, gets to dismiss her as a bitch.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say, my voice firming. “Life outside school is hard on women, especially those without protection. Rosalind makes more sacrifices for you than you can imagine. If her shell is hard, that’s because of everything she’s had to endure.”
“How hard is investigative journalism?” She claps a hand over her mouth and gazes up at me through wide eyes.
“What?” I ask with a frown.
Miranda’s breath quickens as if she’s revealed something wrong, and it takes a few seconds to realize she also doesn’t know Rosalind’s true profession.
“You think she’s writing an exposé on the mafia?” I ask with a smile.
Miranda freezes.
“She isn’t. I already know about her job at the New Alderney Times and a lot more of her secrets. Just give her a break.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re in love,” she says.
“She’s beautiful, fierce, and strong,” I say with a smile, thinking about how much my pet has endured and how prettily she suffers. “Everything a man like me could ever want in a woman.”
She raises her brows. “Even though she acts like you’re the dirt beneath her toenails?”
“She’s treating me mean to keep me keen,” I say with a wink. “Has Rosalind ever raised a hand against you?”
“Of course not.”
I nod. “And does she work hard to provide you with everything you need?”
“Yes...” She frowns.