Well, that answered that. I was not hiding the fact that I was still bleeding from that scene with Mickey last night even if I’d finally pulled myself together enough to call Robin back, tell her all about it through silent crying hiccups and listen to her ranting about how men were all jerks and I was better off knowing sooner rather than later, like I’d learned with Conrad.

She was not wrong.

But somehow, what happened with Mickey hurt more than Conrad’s betrayal, even when recent news could make it fresh.

I had no idea how this could be. Except for a shining twenty-four hours that held the promise of him, he and I never were.

It still destroyed me.

But this time, older, wiser, maybe stronger, but definitely tired of this crap, I thought I was letting it do it quietly.

Mr. Dennison didn’t agree.

I grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe we’ll have a gab over a cup of tea when I’m back.”

“You bring some bourbon, you’re on,” he told me.

I didn’t need to bring bourbon. He had a stash his son augmented every week when he came to visit.

I smiled at him and gave his hand another squeeze. “See you later, honey.”

He squeezed me back. “Later, love.”

I walked to the security door, punched in the code, pushed on the bar, walked through but stopped in the vacant reception area to pull out my phone.

I activated it and scrolled through the notifications.

Bad news: another call from Boston Stone.

Good news: my attorney in California had called me back.

Unbelievably great news: Pippa had texted me.

Flowers are pretty. Thanks.

I was grinning like a fool (inside, outside, after the Mickey thing, I still couldn’t do it), as I poked at the screen and sent a text back to my daughter.

Glad you got them. Chin up, kiddo. Hope you know how much your mother loves you.

I sent that, poked the screen again and put the phone to my ear. I listened to it ring, got his secretary, and considering my last name, she put me right through to my attorney.

Only then did I again start walking.

“I got the message, Amelia,” Preston Middleton said in my ear. “Are you sure about this information?”

I pushed through the front door. “Not really but I’m sure enough I’d like to invest in being absolutely certain.”

I walked down the sidewalk to my car, eyes to my feet, as Preston replied, “I can set a private investigator on it.”

“Consider this the go-ahead to do that,” I told him, looking up.

My step faltered when I saw Mickey in his hot guy dusty construction outfit leaning against my driver’s side door.

Really?

What now?

What could he possibly have left to use to destroy me?