There’s a chorus of no’s.
“Gotta admit,” Colt says, tossing a pair of skates into a bag, oblivious to my rising panic. “Didn’t think you were ever gonna let someone get under your skin again.”
“She hasn’t just gotten under,” Luke adds from the other side of the truck. “He’s fuckingsubmerged.”
Their teasing picks up again, but I barely hear it. I’m retracing my steps, replaying every moment to figure out where my damn phone has gone.
I didn’t wake her, didn’t leave a note.
Just told her, somewhere between the kissing and the fucking, that I’d be at the lake volunteering this afternoon. I'm not even sure she registered it.
And now my phone’s gone.
Fuck.
“Come on Fletch, let’s go!”
I climb into the truck, buckle in, and rest my head against the seat as Colt rolls us out of the bay, hoping she’ll figure it out.
Hoping to God she shows.
Chapter fourteen
Frankie
It's cold. Not icy or alarming, more that soft, hollow chill that settles when warmth has slipped away.
Then I notice the silence.
I shift under the blanket, blinking blearily at the cabin ceiling.
My thighs ache. My hips ache. Everything aches, in that well-fucked kind of way that should come with a grin and a goddamn commemorative plaque.
But I don’t smile, I frown.
Because Mason is clearly not here.
I sit up slowly, wincing as my body protests. The space where he was lying is cold, and I can hear the wood burner’s still going strong, but the cabin feels emptier.
The only sounds are the faint crackle of fire and the wind outside pressing against the walls.
Gingerly, I swing my legs off the bed and stand, clutching the woollen blanket around me and padding into the living area.
I glance toward the armchair, half-expecting to see him sitting there smug in those fire department sweatpants and no shirt, waiting for me to come sit on him again. But no.
There’s no Mason.
I slowly make my way around the cabin, checking different surfaces to see if maybe he left a note because, I realize like a fool, we never exchanged numbers.
All we have is the damn app.
I snatch my phone up and open it, but there’s no message waiting for me.
My stomach twists. I pull the blanket tighter around my chest, ignoring the clutter of the morning—the half-empty water glass, my tangle of clothes on the floor, the dishevelled box of Christmas decorations and tinsel piled on the floor.
Instead, I type out a message to Fireboy.
Me:Hey. You okay?
