And she had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
The camper door squeaked as she pulled it open, and she climbed inside, collapsing onto her narrow bed still wearing her borrowed dress.
Tomorrow, she thought again.
We'll fix this tomorrow.
But even as she thought it, she wasn't sure she believed it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The bed was cold.
Tarmek's hand swept across the sheets before his eyes opened, searching for warmth, for the soft curve of a hip or the tangle of curly hair spread across a pillow. His fingers found nothing but empty space and fabric that had long since lost any trace of body heat.
He sat up too fast, heart slamming against his ribs.
Gone.
The word ricocheted through his skull like a slap shot off the crossbar. Gone. She was gone. Again.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains he'd forgotten to close, illuminating the evidence of last night—his suit jacket crumpled on the floor, her borrowed earrings abandoned on the nightstand, the sheets twisted into chaos around his legs.
But no Edie.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars exploded behind his lids. The dull ache in his chest that hadbecome a constant companion over the past week roared back to life, sharper now, meaner, edged with something that felt dangerously close to despair.
I told her I loved her.
The memory hit him with brutal clarity. Standing in that cramped office, watching tears streak down her cheeks, finally finding the courage to say words he'd never spoken to another living soul.
I love you.
And she'd kissed him. She'd come home with him. She'd fallen asleep in his arms.
Then she'd left before dawn without a word.
Tarmek threw the covers off and stood, ignoring the protest of muscles that had barely recovered from last night's... activities. The cold floor bit at his bare feet as he padded to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, searching for signs that maybe she'd just stepped out for coffee or gone for a walk or?—
Nothing.
The condo was silent and still, exactly as orderly as it had been before she'd ever crashed into his life and rearranged everything he thought he knew about himself.
Almost exactly.
His gaze caught on a coffee mug sitting on the counter. One of his plain white mugs, but someone had drawn a small heart on the side in what looked like permanent marker. The ink was slightly smudged, the heart lopsided and imperfect.
Edie's work. Had to be.
He picked it up, turned it over in his massive hands, and felt something crack in his chest.
When did she do this?
Before she left? Before last night? One of the dozens of times she'd invaded his space and left little traces of herself scattered like bread crumbs?
It didn't matter.
What mattered was that she was gone, and he was standing in his immaculate kitchen holding a defaced mug like it was the most precious thing he'd ever owned.
