Page 8 of The Backup Plan

Clothes. My clothes are on. I pat down my body as if that’s going to validate that they’ve been on since I stepped into them yesterday.

But they’re there and on and oh my God, I’m going to be sick again.

I cough when I’m finished and take the chance to look at my surroundings. The room is dim and the curtains are drawn tight. The walls are neutral, the dresser is generic, the digital alarm clock reads 5:32 in the morning . . . and there’s hotel art I don’t recognize.

Hotel.

Panic spikes.

I look around fast and frantic. My purse is on the nightstand, my phone beside it. Both are untouched. Just like my clothes.

Okay.

Okay.

That matters.

My head throbs and when I try to stand up, it pounds even harder. The room tilts slightly like it’s testing my stomach to see if it can handle the movement. I press my palm to my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut.

Think, Emery. Think.

You went out for a drink.

The bar.

Wood everywhere. Red wine. The nice bartender. Trish on the phone.

Pink polo shirt.

My chest tightens at the floating image of him.

No. I told him no, right? To a drink? To buying me one. To . . . why can’t I remember?

My gaze snaps to the wall beside the bed. To the adjoining door. To how it’s cracked open.

Fear coils tight in my chest, my hands begin to tremble, and my stomach churns.

Shut your side of the door. Get up. Shut it. Now.

But my body has other ideas as I’m unsteady and weak, and my mouth?

“Hello?” I call out, my voice hoarse.

Footsteps thud across the floor and with each one my heart races faster. My eyes are glued to the shared door as a very large hand slowly pulls it open a little more.

And then he’s there.

Tall with broad shoulders filling the frame. Dark hair, which is mostly tucked beneath a baseball hat, that’s curling over his ears. Concern is etched in every line of his face like he’s been standing there debating whether to come in for a while now.

Relief hits me so suddenly it steals my breath.

You’re safe.

I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

Images? Thoughts? Impressions? Something flashes through my mind that tells me I’m safe.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly. And then something in my expression must prompt him to say, “Hey. Easy, there.”