Beau and I, with DeSoto behind us, step off the elevator.
“Thank fuck that was over early, right?” I shift the bouquet of flowers in my grip.
“Yeah, I’ll be happy when these are over, and I think Romy will be too.” Beau shoots me a look. “Rapunzel can finally be set free.”
“I told you to find me somewhere I can take her that’s private and safe.”
Beau’s been on me about Romy staying sequestered in the hotel rooms. We haven’t gone to any restaurants, surviving on takeout and room service.
“I’m not a magician, Zan. Getting in and out of the hotel is hard enough. Sure, I could rent out something romantic for you, but there would still be employees we have to trust. You’re so stuck on the world not knowing about this kid.”
“Need I remind you that you were too? You were the one who pushed it the most.”
His opinion on the matter has changed over the months. He’s loosened his grip, while I’ve only tightened the reins. The closer Romy and I become, the more she means to me, and the bigger her stomach grows, the more desperate I feel to protect her from the hazards of my life.
“I get you’re scar?—”
“Fuck yeah, I am.” I run a hand through my hair.
“Okay.” Beau steps away from his door and walks across to mine. “Let’s not argue about this now. Go give your girl the flowers and have some hot sex. It’s been another long day. We can talk tomorrow.”
He walks back to his door and DeSoto takes up his spot outside mine.
“You know I’d love for the world to know, but?—”
“I do. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.” Beau swipes his keycard and disappears inside his room.
I’m not sure what he expects me to do. If anyone finds out we’re pregnant, shit will get nasty. Rumors will fly, and they’ll pick apart every little thing about Romy more than they already do, make her think I’m only with her because of the baby. They’ll be at the ranch again, bothering her and her family. She won’t be able to go anywhere in Willowbrook without a photographer in her face.
Swiping my keycard, I try to think about some stupid line I can say when I deliver her the flowers. Something poetic, which should be easy since I’m a songwriter, but I’m mentally exhausted from constantly worrying that I have this wonderful person in my life and won’t be able to hold onto her.
I push the door open, and the first thing I see is that the drapes are open, which is a good sign since she’s been sleeping more lately. I’m assuming the baby is making her tired. I’m sure having a baby growing inside you does that.
I walk into the bedroom area, finding the bed empty. The sheets are rumpled and twisted, and her phone charger is still plugged into the nightstand. Her finished lunch plates sit on the table in the corner.
“Romy?”
I search the bathroom. Nothing.
A sense of dread coats my skin like poison seeping in.
I toss the bouquet on the desk and move through the room again, thinking maybe she’s playing hide and seek, and I’ll find her in a set of lingerie as my reward. I yank open the bathroom door again, but it’s just my reflection in the mirror.
Closet. No.
I dig out my phone and hit her name. It rings but goes to voicemail.
Hey, it’s Romy. Leave a message.
I hang up. Call again.
Same thing.
My pulse blares in my ears, like an alarm sounding that something is very wrong.
Think rationally. There are a hundred harmless reasons she could’ve slipped out. Maybe she went for ice.
But we’ve told her not to go anywhere, especially without security.
