“Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.” He tugs his phone from his pocket and lets out a little huff when he sees the screen. “Relax, get comfortable. I’ll be out soon.” He disappears behind the door to his office where I hear almost immediate mumblings that make me assume he’s on a call. Part of me wants to go listen at the door, but a bigger part of me just wants to pretend my life hasn’t been flipped upside down in the last thirty-six hours.
I scan the room again, paying more attention to the details I overlooked before, like the silver-framed photo in one of the cubbies under his TV. I don’t even need to get close to know that Boone is in the middle and surrounded by women I’d be willing to bet are his sisters.
I peer down the hall, spying the closed door, and decide to get a closer look. Most of the women have varying shades of blonde hair, but one is nearly platinum. The fine lines on her face make her a more likely candidate for their mother. The resemblance between them is there—while not in size, because Boone is at least a head taller than all of them, then certainly in their fairer features and how attractive they are. Two of the three other women could be twins, aside from the fact that one of them is clearly very pregnant. The last woman has her head resting on Boone’s shoulder, and she looks to be the youngest.
Grief is a funny thing and can hit you when you least expect it. One second, I’m thinking how beautiful his family is, and the next, my heart is breaking because I know I’ll never have another photo with my family. The last picture Hayzel and I took together was the day she left for school. We were still at the ranch, still stupidly happy, even though we had only lost granddad a few weeks earlier. We’d been prepared for that, though, unlike our parents and granny. We knew he was sick and had been for a while, so there were no regrets.
I’d convinced myself that I’d met the loss quota for a long time because never in a million years did I think Hayzel dying could ever happen. Sometimes I wonder if a thought alone is enough to tempt fate, and if I somehow caused all this because I assumed I knew what it felt like to lose everything, until I finally did.
I set Boone’s photo down carefully when the inevitable thoughts ofwhy mesurface, but it doesn’t stop them from invading my mind. Why does he get to keep his mom and all three of his sisters while I couldn’t keep one? What did I do to be the one left behind? Why didn’t I know any better?
Boone’s deep voice floats through the walls on a mutter I couldn’t understand if I tried, and I feel guilty, as if my thoughts alone could sentence him to the same fate. For the first timein a very long time, maybe ever without prompting from my granddad or anyone else, I say a little prayer that Boone and his sisters never have to experience that kind of loss.
To distract myself, I slide the pocket door open with the intent to find the bathroom and maybe splash some water on my face, but the open doorway to my left snags my attention. I stop just short of entering his room but peer inside.
The walls are a cool, deep gray that seems to make the room a little darker, even though there is a pretty large window allowing lots of natural light in. The bed is fairly low to the ground with no headboard, but there are two reading lamps on poseable arms angled toward the two pillows stacked up on one side of the bed. Something about seeing the other side flat and unused gives me the nerve to fully enter the room. I justify my snooping with the knowledge that Boone pretty much pawed through all my belongings—with good reason—and I’m only looking.
The table on his side of the bed has a TV remote and a small dish that looks distinctly like it was painted by a child. A thought occurs. Boone said he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but we didn’t talk about history. For all I know, he could have been married or even had kids with someone else. The thought isn’t horrible, but it isn’t exactly welcome either. I look over my shoulder to make sure Boone isn’t right behind me, then I make my way over to the little plate to get a closer look.
I take it as a good sign it doesn’t say #1 Dad or anything close, but I stop short of picking it up to inspect the bottom for an inscription. Another quick glance confirms there aren’t any personal photos displayed, and I feel like Boone would definitely have pictures if he had a kid.
I move over to the dresser and pick up the bottle of cologne to sniff. He must have another bottle, because it’s the same musky scent I’ve gotten a little familiar with and certainly appreciated over the last few days. To confirm, I lift the T-shirt I’m wearingto my nose before moving on to the other little trinkets left out—a pocketknife, a thick silver pen, several paper receipts, and a mason jar that’s near overflowing with loose change and small bills.
I could probably get away with opening the drawers, but I lack the desire. I don’t know if I’m worried about what I would find or worried he might somehow know I was snooping. After another lap around the room, I find myself sitting on the side of his bed, gazing out the window. From this vantage point, it’s easy to forget I’m in an apartment complex just a few blocks from a downtown area because of the park-like grounds. In the distance, I can make out the much taller buildings high over the treetops, but they seem farther away than a few miles.
One thing that is almost impossible to ignore is the near constant hum of low flying airplanes circling above. It makes me wonder how long it took Boone to get used to it, or if the noise still keeps him awake at night. I turn to look at his neatly stacked pillows, and the idea of resting my eyes for a few minutes becomes too tempting.
I almost feel guilty for using his pillow when the scent of his freshly laundered linens surrounds me, but that only last until I nestle my cheek deeper, and I curl my legs up. I don’t know if it’s sheer exhaustion or the comfort of knowing no one besides Boone knows where I am, but I fall asleep almost immediately, and I do nothing to stop it.
CHAPTER 21
Boone
After purposely avoiding the clock on my computer, I finally glance down at the little numbers and realize I’ve been hidden away in here for nearly three hours. If I wasn’t intently aware of Harlyn’s presence every second not only because what I’m working on involves her, but also because I can’t seem to get her out of my head, then I might have forgotten she was even in the apartment. I haven’t heard a peep from her since I closed the door to my office.
She’s probably hungry, I know I am, and there isn’t shit here to eat other than some canned soup or frozen pizza. I close the lid of my laptop and push back from the desk. My legs ache slightly when I stand, proving just how long I’ve had my ass planted in the chair.
When I open the door to my office and I’m met with silence, a pit of dread opens up in my stomach. “Harlyn!” I speed walk down the hall to find the living room and kitchen empty. The TV isn’t even on. I spin around to face the door, wondering ifshe could have left without me knowing, but that thought feels wrong. She wouldn’t have left. I won’t accept that. The entryway to my bedroom catches my eye, and rational thought finally returns. She must be in the bathroom.
“I need to chill the hell out,” I mutter while stepping into the hall, intent on making sure she’s okay. However, I find the bathroom door wide open and the interior dark. I spin to look in the last place I expected her to be, but also the only room left—my bedroom.
When her feet and legs, curled up on the end of my bed, come into view, the tension in my shoulders and neck eases, and the calm I was trying to force a few seconds ago comes easily. Her beautiful face is relaxed in sleep, which is more than I can say about her features last night while resting on the couch. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, realizing just how much I like the idea of Harlyn sleeping in my bed.
As if she can feel eyes on her, she shifts, rocking her head deeper into the pillow and stretching out her legs as her back arches. That move alters my thoughts. I don’t want to think of her as just sleeping in my bed. I want to see her writhing in my bed, over me, under me, and beside me while I’m buried so deep inside her, she will feel me for hours after.
She shifts again, seeming to rouse more, and her eyes open. The slant of her brows and near immediate tension around her mouth make me want to hurt the man who has been torturing her. Her chin jerks down, and she startles when she sees me leering from the doorway.
Misplaced guilt tries to take root, but I push down the notion. I know I’m not doing anything wrong by checking on her, and the only reason she jumped when she saw me is because of the asshole stalking her.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” My voice comes out low and deep, conveying my darkening thoughts.
Harlyn inhales sharply before sitting up and pushing her hair out of her face. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
I push off the door and slowly enter the room, giving her time to adjust to my presence, then I sit near the foot of the bed. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m happy she could find comfort here, but it feels presumptuous. “Sorry I took so long. I had to go over a few things with my team.”
Harlyn looks toward the window, trying to gauge the time.
