“Then I guess we’re on the same page.” Gavin held his hand out to Travis.
For the first time in a long time, they were on the same page.
Travis shook his brother’s hand.
Gavin went back to his office, and Travis tried Rachel again.
Voicemail.
Straight to voicemail.
Dammit.
“Rach,” he said into the receiver. “I’m starting to get really worried about you. Can you call me back? Even just send another text. Let me know you’re okay. Okay?”
He disconnected and stared out the window at the Denver skyline.
The knock at the window beside his door had him turning.
“I called the kids,” Gavin said, his words stone. “Brady said Rachel’s sick. She’s been throwing up all morning.”
Sonofabitch. Travis should have known better than to give her time to readjust to Denver. Giving someone space meant they spent a whole day throwing up all by themselves.
This is why a guy didn’t give the woman he cared forspace.
Travis grabbed his wallet and his keys and jogged to the bank of elevators before Gavin could say anything else. He made excellent time and was in his car and out of the parking lot, before Gavin even emerged from the glass revolving door painted like the latest variety of toaster tarts that led to the lobby of the building.
Gavin, however, did catch up to him at the stop sign just outside the industrial park where the Puffle Yum factory was situated. He tailed Travis the entire way to Rachel’s house.
Travis kept to the speed limit, but it took everything he had.
Rachel was sick.
That’s why Rachel hadn’t answered his calls.
If Rachel was so sick she didn’t have her cell with her, then she was really ill.
She couldn’t be really ill because she was Rachel.
That made not a bit of sense, but there it was.
He jogged up the stairs two at a time, then tried the door. Locked. Instead of pounding on the glass panes, he punched the code into the pad,and when the lock clicked, he pushed it open.
“Rach?” he called, leaving the door wide open for his brother. “Brady? Kellan?”
The living room was a wreck. Worse than the birthday party aftermath.
He shoved his fingers through his hair.
Shit. He’d never seen her living room this bad—throw pillows all over the floor. They had pulled the couch cushions off the sofas and lined them along the wall to make some kind of fort. Toys were everywhere. Literally, everywhere. The place was a minefield.
There were even cups filled with unknown liquid on the coffee table.
It looked like an eight-year-old version of a frat party.
They hadn’t been back that long. How the hell had the boys managed this? The kitchen was even worse—used plates, bowls, and silverware covered the countertops.
“Kellan? Brady?” Gavin called, heading up the stairs to their bedroom.
