Little Lost Secrets (Georgiana Germaine Book 2) by Cheryl Bradshaw

Author:Cheryl Bradshaw [Bradshaw, Cheryl & Bradshaw , Cheryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pixie Publishing
Published: 2021-02-20T18:30:00+00:00

25

I entered the Cambria Pub and saw Simone at the bar with her lips pressed around the straw of a fruity cocktail. Her eyes were fixed on an older couple slow dancing to a Johnny Cash song playing on an old jukebox. When she’d messaged me an hour before and asked to meet up for a drink, part of me wanted to decline her offer and continue to work. The other part knew I needed to recharge my batteries, so I hit the snooze button on the investigation and allowed myself to catch my breath.

“Thanks for accepting my invitation. I wasn’t sure if you’d come.” She pointed to a glass in front of her. “As you requested.”

I took a sip of the iced tea, then grinned. “If I didn’t, I figured you’d continue to bring chai lattes to my office until I relented.”

She laughed. “You’d be right.”

“I saw my brother today.”

“He told me. Guess you talked about us. I’m sure you have some opinions about it. Go ahead—lay them on me. I can take it.”

Something told me she could.

“He hasn’t been single long, which concerns me,” I said.

She nodded. “What else?”

“He’s not divorced yet. I assume he told you.”

“We talked about it before we ever went out. I’ve heard the process can drag on for a long time in California. Anything else?”

“I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Do you think I want to hurt him?”

“No,” I said.

It didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

“Why him? Why my brother?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“He asked me out once when we were younger, before he met Tasha. I was dating someone else, which was a shame. I’d had a crush on your brother since we were in middle school.” She fiddled with a ring on her index finger, spinning it around. “How’s the case going?”

It was an abrupt segue.

“I have a clearer picture of what happened now, but the timeline still needs work. I’m not sure how it’s all connected,” I said.

She finished her drink, handed it to the bartender, and ordered another. “If you want to elaborate, I’m a good listener.”

“Thanks, but—”

“How about this ... Tell me what you’re comfortable sharing and forget about the rest.”

I was on a break, doing my best to wind down for a short time before I ramped up again. I wasn't eager to discuss it.

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” I said.

“Are you sure? If we talk about it, it might help you process everything.”

“You sound like a therapist.”

She gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry. My mother was a therapist. I suppose she still rubs off on me sometimes. Hard to erase some of the traits we’re raised with from becoming part of who we are as adults, isn’t it?”

It was hard—a lot harder than I cared to admit.

The bartender brought Simone another drink and offered to make me something a lot stronger than the nonalcoholic strawberry flavored iced tea. I declined. I needed a clear head in the morning.

The pub door opened and in walked the teary-eyed redhead I’d seen at the therapist’s office.

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