Page 23 of Still Missing You

With a muttered curse, I lean over to grab my bag from the side of the bed where I left it. Instead, my fingers graze the plush rug. Frowning, I lean over, but the bag is gone.

“What the fuck?” I whisper. I know I left my computer bag next to the bed, for exactly this reason. So, my things would be close if I needed them. I sit up and scan the small, cluttered space. Had someone been in our room and taken it?

Scanning the room, I notice my computer bag is sitting next to the desk instead. Unease prickles the back of my neck. I know I didn’t leave it there. The desk is a small antique writing desk with an equally small ornate chair set behind it. I can’t imagine a more uncomfortable place to work.

I get up from the bed and start across the room to my bag, but stop. Dylan left a jacket he couldn’t fit in the dresser draped on the back of the chair, but now it’s folded over the back.

The bathroom door opens, and Dylan emerges, looking dangerously adorable in a black and gray plaid pair of pajamas and a faded Ramones t-shirt. For a second, I forget that I’m nearly sure someone has been in our room while we were out. Instead, I fix on his messy, still-damp hair. My fingers itch to drag through the thick strands to see if it’s as soft as I remember. The sight distracts me for a moment, but the unease crawling up my spine doesn’t fade.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, snapping me back to reality.

“Did you move my computer bag?”

He frowns and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t.”

“I’m not accusing you,” I tell him, hating that I’ve made him sound defensive. “I think someone was in the room. Is that how you left your jacket?”

His gaze follows the direction I point, to the chair behind the desk.

“No.” His eyes meet mine, apprehension tightening his expression. “I didn’t touch your bag, and I didn’t leave my jacket folded like that.”

“Go through your things. Check to see if anything is missing.”

He nods and starts opening and closing the dresser drawers, while I lift my computer bag and flip through the contents.

“I don’t think I’m missing anything,” Dylan says, from where he’s kneeling next to his suitcase. “Or if I am, I haven’t noticed.”

The contents of my bags, both the one with my laptop and the duffel with my clothes, seem intact, but I’m certain someone has gone through them. Admittedly, it’s more a feeling than anything I can prove. “Someone has been in here. I think we need to make sure we don’t leave anything valuable behind when we’re out.”

Dylan opens his mouth to say something, but a solid knock at the door cuts him off. I open it to find Nancy standing there with our pizza and drinks.

“There was a delivery.” Her mouth is pressed into a flat line, clearly annoyed. “We typically only allow clear drinks in the rooms.”

She’d clearly looked in the paper bag with our drinks and saw Dylan’s soda. And why not? She’s probably the one who nosed through our things while we were out.

“We’re not children,” Dylan says, moving in front of me to take the box and bag from her. Nancy’s scowl deepens, but she doesn’t try to stop Dylan.

“Just so we’re clear, if anything is ruined, you will be charged.”

“Fair enough,” I grit out through a tight smile. “Thanks for bringing up our order.”

She sniffs, turns and strides away, while I close the door.

“What a bitch,” Dylan says. “Someone should tell her she’s in the hospitality industry.”

He’s set the pizza box on the floor and is sitting cross-legged next to it. He’s already taken his soda from the bag, cracks it open and gulps it down. His eyes close, and his throat bounces with each swallow. I can’t look away. Fuck, it’s not fair that he’s still this hot, even all these years later. And it’s definitely unfair that I am still this affected by him even after everything that’s happened between us.

He takes the soda can away from his mouth, lets out a rumbling belch before adding, “Damn, that was good.”

“Charming.” I roll my eyes, and sink down on the floor next to him.

He cocks his head and eyes me thoughtfully. “I can’t believe you remembered!”

Neither can I if I’m honest, and the acknowledgment makes my face hot. I must look pathetic, remembering his favorite soda and preferred pizza toppings like some kind of lovesick teenager. I take out the water I got for myself from the paper bag.

“No cream soda?” he asks, lifting a pizza slice from the box.

He remembered my favorite, too. I felt slightly less pathetic now. “No, I’d be up all night if I had that kind of sugar this late in the day.”