Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(17)

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Hi, me again. I know you're busy. Sorry. I'm standing outside this Airbnb, or what I remember the address to be, and I feel like if I go inside, I may never come out alive. It has to be the wrong address. Will you check in my email and forward it to your email so I can see the address? Please, please, please.



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After I hit send, I waited and pretended to be on the phone so no one would talk to me. Pedestrians passed by periodically, groups of men with beards and hats, walking to the synagogue I'd passed. The building above the basement apartment looked as derelict as its foundation. The windows were dirty, the first-floor ones barred, and a few newspapers piled up outside the main entrance at ground level. In fact, on closer inspection it looked to be the remains of someone's bed for the night. Panic began to churn my insides. I'd prepaid for the Airbnb, and there definitely wasn't enough room in my budget for an additional hotel bill.

I stared down at the phone in my hand, willing Trystan to text back. As I watched, the battery bar ticked down to nineteen percent. I needed to plug it in. I was going to have to call him.



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My call went straight to voicemail. "Hi, you've reached Emmy's phone—" I mashed the end button. Does anyone ever like the sound of their own voice?

He was either on the phone already or the battery had died.

It was five thirty. Surely he was done with his reading of the will or whatever by now. I hated that I was having to bother him on what was clearly a difficult day.

No.

Screw it.

This was an emergency.

I dialed again.

Straight to voicemail.

I dialed again.

And again.

And again.

"What?" Trystan's voice barked.

"Oh, hi. This is—"

"Emmy, I know."

"Oh." I swallowed quickly while I gathered my scattered thoughts and recovered from his abrupt tone. "Um."

"What do you want?" he snapped.

Oh my God. Was this guy for real? "For you not to act like an asshole for a start."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I phoned you bec—"

"Seven times. You called seven times."

"And you ignored it seven times!"

"Because I'm in the middle of something."

"And I'm in the middle of nowhere with a suitcase and no information about where I'm staying tonight. You know why?" I ploughed on. "Because some asshole took my phone." He hissed but I talked right over it. "And now said asshole won't even answer it to help me figure out where I am supposed to sleep for the night. This . . . is . . . an . . . emergency," I enunciated. My heart beat in my ears, my hands shook, and my face throbbed. All the tears I'd only recently been able to stuff back inside me came back, rising like a tide, and I was mortified to realize my voice had begun wobbling on the last word.

There was silence and a muffled expletive on the other end and then nothing.

I frowned and pulled the phone from my ear. Did he . . .?

"Ugh!" I squealed loudly, almost throwing his phone to the sidewalk in despair and swiping the tears off my cheeks. He'd hung up on me. I couldn't believe this day.



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Did you seriously just hang up on me?



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Suit Monkey: Keep your bloody knickers on. Information headed your way in a bit.



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I blew out a breath. Thank you, I guess.



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How long is this going to take you? I texted again. I'm standing on a street corner with my suitcase. Someone's going to think I'm a hooker looking for a commitment.



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Suit Monkey: Just give me a fucking minute to locate it amongst all your junk mail from Cats R Us and Sewing Monthly. Jesus, you have a lot of shit in your inbox. How do you find anything?



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I use the search bar, Genius.



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Suit Monkey: But, whyyyyyyy do you subscribe to these things?



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I rolled my eyes, and a grin tugged at my mouth even though I was irritated with him.



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Suit Monkey: Never mind. Don't tell me.

Suit Monkey: Are you aware you have over 10,000 unread emails. You are a mess. HOW DO YOU LIVE?



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I clean them out periodically.



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Suit Monkey: Are we talking periods like Ice Age to Information Age?

Suit Monkey: Is there anything else you need because I had a shitty day that won't be over for some time, and I can't be at your beck and call. And for the record, everything about you screams commitment.



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My grin evaporated. Letting out a squeak of frustration, I gritted my teeth and hammered my message out with angry fingertips.



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Yes, actually. I NEED you to stop being so mean. I've also had a pretty shitty day. And your phone is literally the only thing I have to try and navigate my life right now. So please give me a tiny break. Forward the info to your inbox please.