“The room’s ready,” Jacob says.
I blink, my vision a little blurry. I must have nodded off.
My father and Jacob are both standing, towering over me in the chair. But for a moment, Jacob’s face is soft, his hand still on my shoulder.
My eyes are dry. I blink again, still not quite awake.
Jacob’s mouth opens, but then, after a flicker of hesitation, he extends a palm toward me.
“Come on,” he says, his voice gruff.
I reach for his hand instinctively, and he pulls me to my feet.
“Thanks,” I say, but he lets go of my hand the moment I’m standing, already turning toward the elevator. My father and I silently follow him, and as we walk, my mouth opens in a wide yawn.
It must be contagious, because my father lets one out a second later.
It happens again inside the elevator, our reflections staring back at us as we yawn at the same time in the same way, both of us belatedly lifting a hand to cover our mouth.
I freeze mid-movement, then drop my hand, taking a step away from him.
It’s unnerving. A reminder that I share 50 percent of my DNA with this man I barely know. That gestures I don’t think twice about are identical to his.
Jacob unlocks the door to the hotel room with an old-fashioned key—no electronic passes in this place—and I hold back a gasp when I step inside.
It’s beautiful.
Thick royal-green drapes. Antique-looking wood furniture. Everything in this room screams “lush” and “expensive” and “classic.” There’s a fireplace with an actual fire going, and a set of French doors that leads to a giant bedroom with a California king.
The staff, or Jacob, must have pulled out the sofa bed, becauseit’s all set up in the living room, sheets and pillows artfully arranged. And he must have been successful in removing the honeymoon décor, because there’s not a single rose petal in sight.
“Uncle, you’ll take the bedroom.”
My father politely—and sleepily—resists, saying he’ll be fine out here, but Jacob pushes him forward, ushering him in there.
I sit in one of the chairs by the fire, enjoying this small piece of privacy and slipping my flats off my feet.
Good lord. I’m eternally grateful that I decided not to wear heels this morning, but these pointed flats don’t offer much in the way of arch support, and now that I’ve removed them, my feet are throbbing.
I lift my right foot over my knee and massage it, almost groaning at the relief I feel when my thumb slides along my instep.
“He’s almost asleep,” Jacob says, his voice low as he steps back into the room, shutting the French doors behind him.
“Good,” I say, switching my feet and massaging the other one. “He looked tired.”
“Yeah,” Jacob says. “I think we all are.”
He sinks onto the edge of the sofa bed. He’s completely still for a moment, then he raises his hands, rubbing his temples.
“Your dad was asking me what we should do tomorrow. And I didn’t—” He lets out a rough sound. “I don’t know what to tell him.”
He lifts his head, and his eyes meet mine. “What time do you need to leave in the morning?”
“I…” I stop, unsure how to respond. To make my flight, I’d probably need to leave here at noon, but I’m not sure if I want to do that. If I’m ready to go back with Maggie still missing. “I could postpone a day. Or two. To give us some more time.”
Jacob watches me, his pulse ticking in his throat. “You don’t need to do that.”
“But I have the car and—”
