But the other side of the bed is empty.
"Em?" I call out, but I already know.
The bathroom door is open, the light off.
Her clothes are gone from the floor. The only evidence she was ever here is the faint scent of lime on the pillow and a barely perceptible dent in the mattress.
I swing my legs out of bed and check the suite.
Living room: empty. Kitchen: untouched.
Balcony: deserted.
No note on the nightstand.
She left.She actually left.
I stand in the middle of my aggressively expensive penthouse in my boxers, holding my still-buzzing phone, trying to process the fact that I just got ghosted.
The phone rings. Logan's name flashes on the screen.
I answer. "I'm on my way."
"You sound weird," Logan says immediately. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"That's your 'I'm full of shit’ voice. What happened?"
I look at the empty bed, the rumpled sheets, the echo of last night that's already fading. "Nothing happened. I overslept. Give me twenty minutes."
"Donovan—"
“Twenty fucking minutes, Logan."
I hang up before he can push, then sink back onto the bed.
Of course she left. That was our unspoken agreement.
This was only supposed to be one night.
No complications. Ships passing and all that poetic bullshit.
So why does it feel like I just lost something I didn't know I was looking for?
I drag a hand through my hair and force myself into the shower. The water's scalding, but it doesn't wash away the memory of her laugh or the way she felt in my arms or the softness in her voice when she said my name.
Don.
Not even my real name. Just the abbreviated version I'd given her because full names felt too real, too permanent.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed and heading down to the restaurant, my game facefirmly in place.
Whatever happened last night stays in last night.
I have a company to run, an IPO to execute, a life that doesn't have room for beautiful brunette strangers who make me forget why I keep everyone at arm's length.
But as I step into the elevator, I catch myself hoping.
