Page 75 of My Fiancé's Brother 2

“No.”

“Okay, and you're certain that the place was empty a few weeks ago?”

“I shipped Matt’s stuff to another address, and my landlord had the place staged. Three weeks ago, we walked through the loft. It was empty, and the locks worked. We took a lot of pictures.”

“That’s perfect. From a legal standpoint, you have full right to enter the place and have all of their stuff physically removed.”

“I do?” I could hear the fear in my voice. “How do I do that?”

“Call a locksmith. Have movers waiting. Have them move everything out and you can either remove it to a dump or have them put it in some storage locker.”

“What if they come back while this is going on?”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

“Seriously?”

“Listen, it might be better if you get organized today and then have everyone in place for tomorrow morning when they go to work.”

I put my head down on the steering wheel. I was so tired. I could not believe this was happening. “Okay.”

“Do you want me to email you some names that you can call?”

“I feel weird about doing this.”

“Emily, if they claim squatter rights we'll have an even bigger legal mess on our hands that could take a couple of years to resolve. Trust me. You want to move fast on this.”

“Okay.”

I spentthe rest of the day on the phone coordinating everything. We had to provide legal proof to the locksmith that I was indeed the owner. I needed to rent a storage locker and hire a moving company that was willing to pack up and move everything. By the time the day was over, I was exhausted. I could barely keep my eyes open.

I called the dog sitter who assured me that Chloe was feeling a lot peppier and her appetite was returning. I called Beth, and we arranged that she would meet me at the loft tomorrow afternoon so we could have dinner before I headed back to Virginia. I took a bath and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I wokeup to my Skype ringing. Peering at the clock, it was just after 3 AM. Jackson was calling. My heart stopped beating for a long moment.

I turned on the bedroom lamp and opened the screen, blinking against the bright light.

“Hey,” I said sleepily.

I took one look at his stiff posture, rigid muscles, and corded neck and knew that he was livid. I woke up immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“You want to tell me where you are?” his jaw was clenched.

I struggled to wake up and deal with this conversation. “New York.”

He took a deep breath and shook his head, unable to speak. I peered closer at the screen. He stood in our kitchen.

“Are you at home?” I asked, my eyes wide. I could feel my heart pound.

“I’m at home,” he spoke slowly, with forced restraint. “And you’re not.”

My lips parted in shock. “What are you doing home?”

He all but snarled. “The mission got pulled.”

“It’s not what you think,” I blurted out. “My lawyer called and asked me to come to New York. But I was coming back. You told me you would be home in two weeks.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You told me you'd be here when I got back.”

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