“But where is he?” Clay asked, because that was all that mattered, and he damn near wanted to cross his fingers with hope, but he wasn’t a finger crosser. He was a man who knew the law, and knew that when you ran afoul of it there were certain islands where it was better or worse for you to be.

He hoped to hell that Dillon was in one of those countries that would be worse for Dillon.

“Can you say Montego Bay? Because if you can, I’ve got the address for where Dillon Whittaker is living now,” Cam said, and slapped a piece of paper on the table.

Clay grinned, a pure, wicked grin broke across his face as he picked up paper. “God bless Jamaica and its fine extradition laws with the United States of America. Looks like someone is going to need to pay the taxman.”

Taxes were a bitch.

“So what’s your verdict?”

“Uncross your legs,” Gayle said.

“I hardly think uncrossing my legs is the answer to all my romantic woes,” Julia said after telling her stylist most of the details of her situation.

Gayle winked at her in the mirror as Julia followed orders. “I don’t know, sweetie. Kinda sounds like uncrossing your legs has been working pretty well for you with this guy.”

Julia laughed. “Fine, you got me on that.”

“Champion race horse in the sack, right?”

She covered her mouth with her hand daintily, pretending to be shocked. “Did I say that?”

“No. But it sure as hell sounds like it, from the stories you’ve told me about his prowess.”

“Prowess doesn’t even begin to cover it. But that’s not what we’re talking about. I need to know what you think I should do next. A woman can’t make this kind of decision without consulting her stylist.”

“Don’t consult me,” Gayle said, brandishing her silver scissors playfully in the mirror.

“Consult the scissors?”

Gayle shook her head. “Ask the ink,” she said, and tapped her bare arm with the silver scissors, pointing to the cursive letters on her arm spelling out I want to be adored. Julia had always admired the tattoo, even more so because Gayle’s wish for love had come true. Julia leaned in close to the tattoo and whispered, as if offering a plaintive plea to an oracle. “Ink, what should I do?”

“Allow me to translate for the ink,” Gayle said as she resumed snipping hair. “Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Can you forgive him?”

When phrased like that, the answer seemed patently obvious. “Yes,” she admitted in a small voice.

“And most of all, does he adore you?”

Julia tried to suppress a smile, as if she could hold in all that she felt by not admitting the pure and honest truth. But she blurted it out anyway. “So much.”

Gayle gave her an approving nod. “One more question. Do you have any idea how devastated I will be to no longer do your hair if you move to New York? Fortunately, I still go there every few months to cut Jane Black’s hair,” she said, mentioning the Grammy-winning rock singer.

“Name-dropper.”

“I’ll see if I can squeeze you in after Ms. Black.”

“Watch it. I’m going to be famous now, too. You’ll have to start calling me Ms. Purple Snow Globe.”

“You do know that sounds like the name of a vibrator, right?”

“Which makes it an even better name for a drink. Because when you drink one, it makes you feel like a vibrator does,” Julia said, and cracked herself up, along with her stylist.

“That should be the marketing slogan. But you don’t need a vibrator with your champion racehorse.”

“If I take him back,” Julia added, emphasizing that one word. If. Because she had promised herself a week to make this decision.

Gayle rolled her eyes. “A woman’s stylist always knows.”

All night Julia was tempted to text Clay. To let him know what happened with Farrell Spirits. To tell him which way she was leaning. But she also knew she needed to give this a week. The time apart was less about him, and more about her. It was about what she wanted in life, but more so, what she needed. As the days had passed with necessary silence, her heart had become clearer. She trusted him. She’d become sure of that. The question remained, though–did she trust herself? Did she have enough faith in her own gut to make the right choice when it came to men? When it came to love?

As she settled into bed, she glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It blared one-thirty in garish red. Tomorrow would be Saturday, and her self-imposed Clay exile was nearing an end. Only twenty-four more hours until she gave him her answer.

She reached for her phone so she could reply to McKenna. She and her sister had been texting earlier in the day about getting together for a Saturday girls’ lunch. She hadn’t seen her sister since the wedding, and she missed her something fierce.

“See you at noon, and get ready for a tackle-hug, because that’s what I’ll be giving you,” she typed.

Her sister replied seconds later. “You better get ready to receive one too.”

That left Julia with a big, fat smile. Then she clicked over to her email for one final check before bed, and her heart stopped when she saw his name. The email had been sent a few hours earlier in the evening, and she was only seeing it now. Part of her wanted to berate him, to tell him to give her the space she’d asked for. But mostly, she felt giddy. She missed that man, and the happiness over simply seeing his name in her email was a potent reminder, like someone had underlined it with yellow highlighter, of what she should do.

from: cnichols@gmail.com

to: purplesnowglobe@gmail.com

date: June 7, 10:48 PM

subject: For You

Julia,

I’ve seen enough movies to know that when it comes to romance, the man usually screws up and then makes some sort of big gesture for the woman. The boom box in the rain, the trip to the top of the Empire State Building, or sometimes just flowers, candy, or a note. But you’re not that kind of a woman—the kind who needs or wants flowers, candy, or a note. Though I’ll gladly give you all of that if you let me. But I want to make good on a promise I made to you at your sister’s wedding. I spend my days helping my clients to make more money and to protect their interests. But I can protect you too. And I can give you something I know matters more to you than flowers, candy, or a note. Because I know you, Julia. I know you so well. And what I can do is this—I can right a wrong for you. Please click on the link and you’ll see.

She hovered over the blue link, without a clue what she would find. She tapped it, bringing up a small blog called Death and Taxes. Julia eyed it curiously at first, then the possibility slammed into her of what he’d done. Some kind of wild hope bloomed in her chest as she scrolled through the short, succinct blog posts, each one detailing a tax-evading citizen who’d been caught. Then she found the one that had her name written all over it.

California resident Dillon Whittaker has been served with an extradition order from Jamaica back to the United States where he is currently under investigation for failing to pay taxes on $100,000 in income from the previous year. The IRS said it learned of Mr. Whittaker’s non-compliance with the tax code under its Whistleblower Law that encourages tipsters to turn in tax cheats by bringing forth evidence on potential tax evasion to the IRS. If the information is substantive enough, the individual may receive a portion of the back taxes paid by the tax evader. We will continue to report on the outcome of the investigation into Dillon Whittaker. Sources tell us jail time is coming soon.

Julia leapt out of bed and shouted victoriously, pumping a fist in the air. She brought her phone to her lips, kissing the screen over and over. She was sure she’d soon take flight, and rocket around the city on this crazy glee she felt. “Take that, fucker.”