“I should go back to the house.”
“Yeah. You should. Where’d you plan to sleep tonight, anyway? The car?”
“My apartment.” Sniffling, I lower my gaze and stare down at my lap. “Where it’s hot as Hades, but an easy walk to my office.”
She barks out a silly laugh. “You win some, you lose some. Text me later if you want. I promisenotto check your communications for the next few hours… ya know, in case you decide to send Detective Malone a picture of your vagina.”
“You should stop checking my communications, period. It’s a gross invasion of my privacy and completely against the law. Plus, infusion night means no one’s fucking. Factor makes me sleepy.”
“Speak for yourself,” she snickers. “Mymarriage is healthy. Plus, you forgot to swipe your medicine before you ran. Call your husband, make up, bang, then medicate. Oh, and Jen finalized a batch of experimental Factor special for you. She keeps nagging me to ask you to try it.”
Experimental?
“Hard pass. But thanks for thinking of me. I’m hanging up now.”
“Fine. But I want it on record that we conducted this extremely normal, not-weird, girlfriends-supporting-girlfriends phone call just now. You’re experiencing a significant personal dilemma, and I mediated a successful, mature discussion when pulling out a flamethrower was totally an option. I’m telling my husband about this.”
“I repeat: hard pass.”
“I won’t tell him your business. Just that I rocked this phone call and didn’t kill anyone. That’s growth for me. And when you find your lady balls, swallow your pride, and call your husband, you’ll be able to celebrate growth, too. It’s a fantastic Tuesday.”
“Mmhm.” I slip my hand under my thigh and grab my phone. “I’m hanging up now. Good talk, Solomon.”
“Yup.” She pops up at her desk, her chair groaning with the movement. “I feel like I need to go shoot someone now. Rebalance the violence versus estrogen scales in my head. I’ll be around later. Maybe.” She teases. “Unless I’m fucking. In which case, I’ll get you back tomorrow.”
I end our call and navigate to my texts, just in case Archer snuck something in over the last minute or so. Coming up empty, I release a noisy harrumph, annoyed by my own neediness. Uncomfortable with my yearning when, for the entire time I’ve known him, I’ve never been left waiting… wanting… needing.
Cowardice makes resorting to a text dizzyingly tempting… something quick and lacking in accountability, likesorry I was a bitch. I’m coming home. But Archer’s selflessness from themoment we met means he deserves more than that. He deserves a conversation, so I hit dial instead, jumping when the call rings through the car’s speakers. “Shit.” Setting the device on my thigh and tipping my head back, I close my eyes—like a coward—and wait. Wait. Wait a little longer.
Maybe he’s driving. Searching for me. Maybe he’s speeding, just like I was, and needs a moment to slow down before he answers. Maybe he’s fighting with his brothers, arguing over the mess I left behind. And dammit, maybe he’s furious and simply doesn’t want to talk to me.
I gulp, swallowing the ache building in my throat for every second I hear a ringtone and not my husband’s voice. But a mere beat before I expect it to go to voicemail, our call connects and tears, traitorous, ruinous tears, burn behind my eyelids.
“Archer?” My voice crackles and breaks. My heart… thunders. “Hey.”
He’s not driving. Not speeding. Not fighting.
“Minka.” His voice is hard. Unflinching. “Where are you?”
“Um…” I clear my throat, flick my eyes open, and study a residential street packed with two-story homes, white picket fences, and at least three separate families taking a stroll before dinnertime. “I’m in town. At the bottom of the hill.”
He grunts, the sound emanating from somewhere deep in his chest. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I…” I inhale cold, air-conditioned air all the way to the base of my lungs, and brushing hair off my face, I exhale again so the noise carries through our call. “I’m sorry for leaving like I did. And I’m sorry for hurting you with the Agosti thing.”
The sound of his breath, heavy and even, fills my car. His anger, palpable.
Ashamed, I glance down at my lap. “I was safe the whole time. I know you worry, so I just wanted you to know I was safe.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I…” Stunned, I sit taller in my seat and frown, my brows pinching together to create lines Ifeelin my forehead. Behind me, a shiny black SUV rolls to a stop, my pulse jumping as the door cracks open and a Malone guard steps out.
Not Archer.Not even Harrison.
“W-what do you mean, what do I want?”
“I mean, why are you calling?” His voice is so harsh. His pain, my pain.
