Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters #2)(66)

Blowing out a harsh breath, I run a hand through my hair. I need to get this shit cut. It’s driving me crazy, always falling in my eyes. “I’m not exactly sure.”

Cash wheezes. Or maybe he’s sighing. I can’t tell. “I’m telling ya, you need to get your ass back here. The position needs to be filled and he’s going to find someone else for the job, which would be a damn shame because you’re perfect for it and you know it. You’ve got an eye like no one I’ve ever met. They would kill for your expertise.”

“Put me down for Monday, okay? Let them know I’ll be there first thing in the morning or whatever works best for them.” If I can’t go back to New York with Mitchell, then I’ll have to find my own way home.

This means I have approximately forty-eight hours left with Rose.

Not enough time. I don’t want to leave her. Worse, I don’t know how I’m going to tell her I’m leaving her.

“Sounds good. Just know that this position can’t wait for you.” He keeps telling me this and I know he’s right. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. A lifetime, kid. It’ll help you go legit. Keep you out of the shit.”

“You’ve done all right for yourself,” I point out.

“I don’t know anything else. I got in so deep, there’s no way I could get out. Next thing I knew I was forty. Then fifty, then sixty … hell, I can’t even make myself retire. I’m addicted to this game. It’s ridiculous.” Cash pauses. “But you, you can pull yourself out of this. You’re young. You’re smart. You can do something with your life and actually become something.”

That’s why I’m going to the interview. Cash talks like the job is mine already, but we don’t know that for sure. I still need to interview and prove myself. It’s still hard for me to believe I’ve been handed this opportunity. An established and respected jeweler with a store in Brooklyn needs someone with a good eye who can evaluate and price jewelry. Considering I’ve been stealing copious amounts of jewelry for years and can price the shit out of it—both on the black market and legitimately—this is right up my alley.

And Cash knows it. The second he heard about the position—he’s friends with the owner, talk about ironic—he knew I was the perfect candidate. I’m flattered he even thought of me.

“I’m going to call Mitchell right now and see when he’s going back home,” I reassure Cash. “I’ll call or text you when I find out more details.”

“If you gotta fly commercial, book a flight. I’ll front you the money.”

His offer makes me feel like shit. “I can pay for it. I have money.” I don’t want to be his charity case.

“The offer stands. If you need it, tell me. I want to help. You can always pay me back,” he says firmly. “Keep me posted when you know more.” He ends the call and I immediately look up Mitchell’s number and call him.

“Tell me you’re finally coming over.” This is how Mitchell greets me. He’s already slurring his words. It is way too early for him to be drunk. “We’re having a party tonight. In your honor.”

“Give me a break. And I don’t want to go to your shitty party.”

“You’re an *. A stupid *. This shit will be amazing tonight. There will be alcohol. There will be scantily clad women with sexy British accents and cock-sucking lips. Oh, and there will be all the drugs you could ever ask for. All of it. Maybe drugs you never even knew existed.” Mitchell laughs. “God save the Queen, man. I f*cking love England.”

Sounds like an absolute nightmare. I decide not to even acknowledge what he just said. “So when are you returning to the States?”

Mitchell makes an irritated sound. “Is that all you ever want? To know when we’re leaving? Are you that anxious to get out of here?”

“I have an appointment I need to go to on Monday.”

“And that’s my problem how?” Mitchell laughs and I hear a female voice in the background, asking him if he wants another round. Great. He’s entertaining.

“I’ll find my own flight back home,” I tell him irritably. I don’t need this shit. “Talk to you later, Mitch.” He hates it when I call him that. Thinks the nickname sounds too blue collar. Such an elitist prick.

“Wait, wait, wait, Kingsley. I’ll get you back home.” He pauses and I hear ice clink in a glass, so I can only assume he’s having a drink. He smacks his lips together before he says, “I’m flying out Sunday night.”

“Sunday night?” I turn and watch the front doors of the hotel, hating the hinky feeling I have that Rose is somehow lingering nearby. But she’s not. When I left her in the room she was on the phone with her sister and planning on going in to Fleur this afternoon. “Is that confirmed?”

“Yeah, yeah. Confirmed. Around seven, though I’m not exactly sure about the departure time. I don’t want to leave too early or too late.”

“Makes sense.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks a lot for helping me.”

“Not a problem. But hey.”

“What?”

“I have one condition, my friend.”

My sense of relief flies right out the window. I hate conditions. “What is it?” I ask warily.