CHAPTER SIX
Ingrid
I wake up alone, but this time it's different.
This time there's a note on the pillow beside me, written in Gunnar's messy handwriting on the back of a receipt:
Kirkja at 8. Didn't want to wake you. Stay as long as you want. Text me when you're up.
- G
I stare at the note, something warm unfurling in my chest.
He left a note.
Such a small thing.
But after years of men who couldn't be bothered to say goodbye, who treated me like I was disposable, a note feels like everything.
I check my phone—9:43 AM.
Three texts from Gunnar:
Morning, sweet girl.
Kirkja is running long. Lots to discuss.
Miss you.
Miss you.
Two words that shouldn't make my eyes sting but do.
I text back:
Just woke up. Miss you too.
Then I force myself out of bed, gathering my clothes from where they're scattered around his room.
The walk through the clubhouse should be embarrassing—doing the walk of shame in yesterday's clothes, hair a mess, everyone knowing exactly where I spent the night.
But the few people I pass just nod or smile.
A prospect at the kitchen counter grins. "Morning, Ingrid."
"Morning."
No judgment.
No knowing looks.
Just... normalcy.
Like me spending the night in Gunnar's room is the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I'm the only one who's been making this complicated.
