Rogue Wave Isabel Jolie (books for 20 year olds .TXT) 📖

She kissed over her bite mark. “That works.”

“So, Poppy. I’ve been thinking about her. Is there something I could do to help her, so she doesn’t have to, you know, sell photos of herself?”

“She doesn’t need help.”

“Did she not like bartending? She could go back to it.” I twisted a long blonde strand around my finger, enjoying the feel of her naked body against mine and the intimacy of talking this way, spread out on her bed.

“Yeah, she could, but she seems to enjoy her current gig.”

“Really?” I’d seen too many brothels in my time filled with women who didn’t have a choice to compute someone having a choice and choosing that. Not that selling nude photos was the same thing, but it sounded like more than photos.

“I think so. She’s thinking about meeting up with one of her customers.”

“That can’t be—”

“I know. I told her. But she’s going to do what she wants to do. It’s her life. Her choice.”

“If she goes, you need to make sure you know how to get in touch with her. Where she’s going. Can you track her phone?”

“Hhmm, we have friends, so I can locate her on that app. But all he’d have to do is turn her phone off. That’s hardly a safety guarantee. I don’t like her going.”

I tilt her chin up to me. “I don’t like her doing it at all. But I’m not one to get judgmental. Just promise me it’s not something you’ll do.”

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and studied me, then pushed forward to kiss the tip of my nose, dragging her body along mine as she moved. My dick twitched.

I rolled over onto her and intertwined her fingers with mine and kissed her slowly, taking my time, enjoying this. Everything between us felt so easy. No expectations. The perfect lazy Sunday. Just enjoying our time together, without the weight of the past or worries about the future interfering.

After Luna left to greet the researchers, I stopped by the post office on my way to the business center with a goal of following up on a lobbying position I’d applied to. The lone post office sat across from the lighthouse and serviced the entire island. As I approached the wall of mailboxes, I ran into one of the island realtors. Our conversation went on and on, then wrapped up with, “If you ever decide you want to sell your grandmother’s cottage, let me know. Spring would be a great time to list it if it’s something you’re considering.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his business card.

I slipped it into my shorts pocket and pulled out the tiny metal key for my mailbox. They’d crammed so much mail into it, I ripped the first catalog I pulled out. The unwanted catalogs and junk mail I dropped directly into the nearby blue recycling bin. One thick official-looking manila envelope remained stuck in the narrow box. The heavy weight paper reminded me of a college acceptance package filled with important documents. With effort, I pulled it out intact. My skin tingled when I read the return address. Washington D.C.

I ripped it open and skimmed the letter, then headed over to the business center. My lawyer worked magic. Or maybe the Somalian adoption agency case worker had. Whoever did it, it didn’t matter.

The next few hours passed in a hazy whirl. Phone calls to my lawyer, to the adoption agency, to the U.S. Embassy. While I normally purchased airline tickets online, this time I used a travel agent as a double-check to ensure I followed all procedures and could bring my daughter home without issue.

My daughter. When she’d looked at me with those scared eyes, I’d known I had to help her. Adoption wasn’t my first thought. But when the caseworker at the orphanage suggested it, it seemed like a reasonable solution. Plus, applying ensured the adoption agency would keep her in the orphanage and she would be safe.

The agency had said to expect the adoption to take years. Everything I read online corroborated what they said. My lawyer warned it would likely not be possible. Less than one year ago I sat in a chair at Humanity Without Borders and waited for an English-speaking case worker to arrive. One year.

In that time, it seemed the girl I paid to protect had been smuggled into Kenya and paperwork created that would allow me to adopt her. I had told my lawyer I’d pay whatever I needed to. And I would. This girl, to me, stood out as a tangible personification for all the wrong I’d seen that I’d been powerless to correct. My opportunity to make a difference. Not in a whole classroom, like my mother, but in one life. My lawyer had told me how much it might cost, but I didn’t expect the total fee would exceed his original outlandish cost estimate. But it wasn’t like I was going to turn around and tell him money meant more to me than her life.

I listened to my voicemail, and sure enough, I had voice messages dating back since last week from my lawyer. In an old email account I hadn’t been using, I found emails. My lawyer had kept me apprised, I’d just been on my own little island vacation.

The adoption agency provided me a list of everything I needed to do to prepare. For her, not for me. I’d fly to D.C. first, then Kenya.

By the time Tim tapped on the door to let me know they were closing up the business center for the night, I’d put an ad out for a tutor and emailed Gregg to let him know my nieces would now have a cousin. He responded within seconds. Of course. I promised to stop in Connecticut on my way back with her. He suggested I stay for the holidays with them. And, I had to admit, it wasn’t the worst suggestion. I didn’t have a