He moved through the open kitchen to the living room. No sign of her. The TV was off, which meant she hadn’t been down here. He walked to the foot of the stairs. “Yo, Rusty!”
No reply came. He headed up, taking the stairs two at a time. A grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he headed to his room. Images of how he’d find her there, waiting for him, flashing through his head. But when he walked in, she wasn’t in there, either. Dumping the bags he was still carrying on the dresser, he checked the bathroom. Empty.
He called her name again, doing a quick search of his place. Then it hit him, her pickup hadn’t been there when he pulled in, had it? Walking to the rear bedroom, he checked out the window and, sure enough, her pickup was missing.
Weird. She’d promised to wait. Maybe she’d gotten hungry and headed out to get lunch on her own. Moving out to the hall, he noticed the door to his office open and walked in, pulling out his phone to call her.
Scrolling to her name, he hit the call button.
That’s when he spotted it, the contract, sitting on his desk in full view. A mug lay on its side by his laptop, coffee spilled across the surface of his desk.
The phone, still held to his ear, stopped ringing suddenly and clicked over to voicemail, Rusty’s voice coming down the line asking him to leave a message.
He didn’t—he fired the fucker across the room.
She’d seen the contract. She’d seen it and run.
He’d lost her.
I’ve ruined fucking everything.
With a roar, Reid swiped his arms across his desk, sending the neat stacks of paper and his laptop flying, crashing to the floor. Breathing hard, hard enough he thought he might be hyperventilating, he went to his knees, searching for his phone.
Finally, he found it. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. He tried her number again. It rang a few times, then clicked to voicemail. She’d cut off his call.
He couldn’t blame her.
You should have told her yourself. Instead he’d come up with excuses, telling himself that keeping the truth from her was for her own good. That since he no longer intended on going through with it, it really didn’t matter. Anything to avoid facing the shitty thing he’d planned to do.
He had to talk to her, explain, make her understand. No way would he let her go this time without a fight.
Scrambling to his feet, he jogged downstairs, out the door, and climbed into his car. He had to tell her he loved her. Beg her to forgive him.
Somehow, even with his foot planted on the gas the whole damn way, he made it to Rusty’s cottage without a speeding ticket. The Plymouth rocked to a stop outside her place, and he shoved the door open, striding to the front of the house. He banged against the solid wood, but no sound came from inside. He rested his forehead against the door. “Rusty, open up, baby. Please, I need to explain.”
He waited. Nothing. Leaving the porch, he checked the street. No sign of her pickup. He walked around the back of the house. Piper’s Corvette was missing, but Rusty’s truck was parked there.
Relief washed through him, hard and fast.
She was inside.
He went to the door and started banging again. “Rusty. Talk to me. You’ve got it all wrong.”
To his surprise, a few seconds later, the door opened.
He took in the woman standing in front of him. Hair wet, smelling like the vanilla soap she used. She wore faded jeans, body covered up except for her bare feet, toenails still the same blue from the night before. The baggy Guns N’ Roses tee she wore swamped her frame. She looked small, almost fragile.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was steady, cold.
“You didn’t answer my calls.”
“No, I was in the shower, washing your stench off my skin.”
Her expression was closed off, distant. And fuck, her words cleaved him in two. “Rusty…”
“Your smell, the memory of your hands on me…it makes me feel like a whore.”
He grabbed the door frame, because her words had the power to knock him on his ass. “Don’t say that.” He tried to step closer, but she crossed her arms and stepped back.
