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I didn't even write it down on that receipt.

Hell's bells. I'm a damn fool.

Dad softens some once the cattle are accounted for and the fence has enough temporary wire strung to hold until proper posts arrive. He claps a hand on my shoulder before I head for my truck and says, "Good work this morning. Whatever kept you out late better have been worth it."

"It was," I tell him, and I mean it more than he probably expects.

Mason falls into step beside me on the way to the trucks, grinning in that way that means he's about to say something I'm not going to enjoy. "So. The girl from the bar."

"Don't."

"Lainey, right? Carla's friend?" He's not letting this go, and there's a note under the teasing that sounds almost like he's actually curious, not just needling me for the fun of it. "You left with her at midnight and didn't come up for air till Dad started blowing up your phone. That's a new record, even for you."

"It wasn't like that."

"Wasn't like what? Didn't you leave the bar wrapped around her like she was the last woman on earth?" He laughs, shaking his head.

"Leave it," I warn.

But Mason can't. He continues, "I've never seen you give a girl doe eyes."

"Shut up," I growl, and slap my arm against him.

"So she's just another girl?" he pushes, smirking.

Admitting the truth out loud to my brother in a gravel driveway at two in the afternoon isn't exactly how I pictured working through whatever's going on in my chest. But I finally say, "No. She's different."

"Different how?"

"I don't know yet." And that's the honest truth of it. I don't know what it is about her that had me writing notes on grocery receipts and turning down every reason to leave that bed this morning. All I know is she's different.

Mason claps me on the back, the same way Dad did, except his grin's a whole lot more amused about it. "Well, don't keep the poor girl waiting too long. Wouldn't want her getting the wrong idea about Cartwright men."

I don't dignify that with an answer, just climb into my truck. I point it back toward town, driving faster than I should, imagining her reaction when I tell her the whole story about fences and cattle and my angry father.

The drive back feels longer than the one out, and every red light in town conspires against me. I'm almost to the apartment when a very slow-moving truck turns in front of me, testing my patience in a way that would've amused me any other morning. I finally park outside my building and I take the stairs two at a time.

I unlock the door, already rehearsing what I'm going to say, picturing her sitting up in my bed with her hair every which way. Grinning, I open the door and step inside, then freeze. It's too quiet even if she's still sleeping.

I cross into the bedroom. "Lainey?"

My gut curls. The bed's empty, sheets pulled up loose like somebody made an effort at making it, but the comforter is piled on the floor. My receipt's gone from the pillow.

I search the nightstand, the bathroom, the kitchen counter for some kind of note of her own to explain where she went and when she's coming back.

There's nothing except for the faint trace of vanilla still hanging in the air and the dent in the pillow where her head rested for a few hours before dawn split us apart.

I stand in the middle of the apartment, feeling like an idiot for how hard my chest aches over a woman I met less than twenty-four hours ago.

Carla!

I pull out my phone and call her.

Three shrill beeps hit my ear, then, "We're sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

When did Carla change her number?

I stare at the empty bed for another minute, then race out of the apartment, get in my car, and drive to her house.