Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Jasinda Wilder Page B

downtown streets are narrow with the buildings fronting right up to the street and cars parked in an angled row. Most of the buildings still have the original brick façade, actually, and they’re all connected, one to the other.  
    This ain’t Humboldt County, that’s for sure.  
    I park in front of a coffee shop, clip a leash to Utah’s collar, and walk the sidewalks.  
    People are friendly, welcoming. More than once I’m stopped by perfect strangers who just seem to want to pass the time, scratch Utah’s ears and remark on how big she is, and saying isn’t she the sweetest thing.  
    More than once, too, I’m asked what I’m doing in these parts, which makes it obvious this is a small town, the kind of place where folks all know each other and strangers stick out. I tell them, truthfully enough, that I’m just passing through.  
    Also, I probably look about as California as I feel. Never realized before how much I look like what I am: a rich, spoiled Beverly Hills asshole. Never worked a day in my life. Went where I wanted, did what I wanted. Thrived on adventure and danger. That kind of insouciance is hard to miss.
    I’ve been all over the world. I consider myself cultured, well traveled, and interesting. Most people I’ve met seemed to think so, too.  
    ’Round here? I’m just a fancy-Dan big city boy. That’s my impression, and I don’t even know anyone.
    Larry didn’t give me an address, or any way to locate this Niall James, so I find a cafe with an outdoor seating area where Utah can hang out, and I call him again.  
    “Lachlan, how are you? Where are you?”
    “Good, Larry, I’m good. I’m in Ardmore, but I have no idea how to find this girl.”
    Larry sighs. “I looked into it a little more, figuring you’d probably be calling again. Trouble is, it doesn’t feel like she wants to be found. I don’t get the sense she’s running, exactly…like she’s not in any kind of trouble, not trying to stay off the grid or anything. But she very clearly doesn’t want to be found. No phone number, no home address. Her last address is in LA, but that was over seven years ago, now. She was with MSF for six years, and when her husband died, she just…vanished. No forwarding address, just a PO box for mail, which is how I found her in the first place.  
    “Now, I could hire a PI if you’re determined enough. The PO box is all I could find from a cursory search. So…you’ll have to tell me how you want to proceed. A private investigator could find her easily enough but…honestly, Lachlan, that seems a little excessive, if not invasive. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but I feel I should try to advise you. She’s lost her husband. She probably won’t welcome anyone poking their nose into her business, if you know what I mean. So if you really want to just…talk to her, find whatever peace it is you’re looking for down there, I’d say you’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way: with charm and determination.”  
    “I’m long on the first and short on the second, Larry.”  
    “Not sure I can help you with that.”  
    “So I’m learning,” I say with a sigh.
    “I’ll say this: she’s a nurse. So chances are, she’ll have returned to what she knew, which would be a hospital, an ER, a doctor’s office, something like that. Ask around. A name like Niall…down in that place? Someone is bound to know her, or of her, at least. Can’t be too many women named Niall James in the world, know what I mean?”  
    “I gotcha. Thanks, Larry.”  
    “My pleasure, Lachlan.”
    He hangs up and I pocket the phone, absentmindedly scratch Utah’s ears.  
    How do I proceed?  
    No, hiring a PI isn’t the best idea. It’ll spook her for sure, if she gets a whiff of it. And if I do find her, how do I tell her how I found her? Oh, by the way, Niall, I had a private investigator hunt you down . Bad enough I’m doing this at all, but to sic a PI on her? No way.