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Maybe he never experienced a night like that before.

I certainly haven’t.

Or maybe he had somewhere to be.

I glance at the clock.

At five in the morning. Without saying goodbye.

Asshole.

I snatch a mug from the cupboard, my irritation turning inward. I don’t know his number. Hell, I don’t even know his last name.

All I know is his first name. Roman.

He’s allegedly a hitman. Six-foot-four. Dark hair. Whiskey-brown eyes. Great dick. Phenomenal forearms.

He notices things. Like when my breath hitches.

And he calls me Chaos.

Yup. I’ve officially become a private detective now.

I pour the coffee, then add pumpkin spice creamer and a dash of cinnamon on top.

I lean against the counter, sip the drink, and analyze what I’m missing.

No last name.

No phone number.

No address.

No employer information.

No social media.

I don’t even know where his truck is because he never told me.

Anger courses through me.

Okay, I can add one more thing to the list of things I do know about him.

Asshole who sneaks out while women are sleeping!

I carry my coffee upstairs, deciding a nice, hot shower will help.

But as soon as I step into my bedroom, my eyes go straight to the empty side of the bed again.

The annoyance fades.

Because I really thought… I don’t know what I thought.

I’m in denial.

The truth hits me like a brick to the chest.

I thought he’d still be here when I woke up.