I drop onto the end of the bed. I’m rubbing the tension out of my neck when the pair of jeans slides off the uneven pyramid of clothes in the laundry basket and thumps onto the floor.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a sign we really need to do laundry.
Then I notice what’s slid out of the back pocket.
A flip phone.
My eyes narrow staring at it. Jhene doesn’t have a phone. She’s always made it clear she has only a few belongings to her name, none of which included a phone.
…so where the fuck did this come from?
In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never once seen her with it. She’s never texted anyone or taken a call.
My mind goes back to this afternoon after we’d played some of the carnival games. I had heard a buzzing noise I couldn’t place before Jhene promptly… provided a very good distraction.
I pick the phone up off the floor and flip it open as the shower starts in the next room. Some would say it’s wrongof me to snoop, and normally, I’m not the kind of asshole who does.
But Jhene keeping a phone from me begs the question: What does she have to hide? Why would she keep this, of all things, a secret when I thought we were upfront with each other?
Just who the hell has she been communicating with? Where did she even get the phone if, on a good day, she can’t afford a coffee from the diner around the corner?
I don’t have answers to any of those questions. But as I flip the phone open and bring up the very active call logs and message inbox, I’m going to get them.
TWENTY-TWO
Jhene
It’sfunny how quickly warmth can drain out of a room.
I know from the moment I step out of the bathroom that something’s off.
Only twenty minutes ago, the apartment had an air of contentment. Killian and I were both exhausted from our long day, but we felt more bonded than we’ve ever been.
Walking out of the bathroom, we’ve never felt more distant. The air mirrors this, the warmth gone for a frigid coldness that takes my breath away.
It makes my skin prickle and stomach clench and me wish I could travel back in time to thirty minutes ago.
Killian’s by the window with his back to me, peering out at the street below. From the three-quarter angle, his jaw’s clenched, obviously holding tension. His eyes match, a hardness about them that’s intimidating.
My gaze drops a few inches lower to see what’s in his hand.
It’s my burner phone. The one I’ve been hiding for weeks. From the moment Killian and I met.
I stop in my tracks, so immediately panicked I can’tprocess it. I can’t fathom how he’d possibly—it must’ve slipped out of my pocket.
My jeans are on the floor next to the laundry basket. I must’ve missed when I tossed them and the phone must’ve slid out.
How did I not think to hide the stupid phone in the first place?!
I’ve been so good about keeping it secret!
No. No, no, no!
…how could this happen? How can I even fix this?
“Killian,” I croak into the studio’s loud silence. “I… I can explain.”
He doesn’t turn around or even move at all. He continues glaring out the window, offering no indication he’s heard me in the first place.
