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The sun was high in the sky, and I wasn’t one of those people that could read the time like a fricking sundial, but I knew it was late. That was something. I didn’t sleep late. Even though I was up most of the night and I should’ve slept late to compensate, I didn’t. My body didn’t stay unconscious when there was a new day, a new adventure. A new escape.
But in Heath’s arms, where I was having an adventure, when I’d stopped looking for an escape, I finally gave my body the sleep it needed. Never had I felt so well rested.
But there was one problem.
“Heath?” I repeated, this time louder, though the size of the apartment that if he was here, he would’ve heard my low croak.
Something settled in my stomach. An unease with the knowledge I was naked and alone in Heath’s apartment.
“Don’t believe the worst, Polly,” I muttered to myself, getting up and snatching Heath’s tee from the floor, smelling it first. The scent of him and I mixed together was calming. “He’s probably gone for muffins or tea,” I continued muttering to myself, looking to the bedside tables for a note.
Heath was a man who left notes. Because he was also the man who had an alarm clock directly in the middle of the bedside table, despite the fact he woke automatically at dawn. Well, he had before. I assumed that something they took such trouble to drum into you at basic training was something that was hard to shake.
And that’s because who Heath was.
He wasn’t as ordered or groomed on the outside as he had been in the Marines, but his apartment told me he still was on the inside.
Hence me looking for the note.
There was no note in the bedroom.
I padded into the kitchen, guessing it might be tacked on the naked fridge. But that didn’t even have magnets to pin it on.
Who the heck didn’t have fridge magnets?
The counter was clean, wiped down, mail stacked neatly to one side.
Again, no note.
That uncomfortable feeling settled in my stomach as I snatched my purse from the sofa I’d dumped it on last night.
I scrolled through my numerous messages and voicemails. Something that was the norm for me since none of my friends operated on the same timeline.
Nothing from Heath.
I sucked in a breath.
Was he doing it again? Was this his final revenge for everything I’d done to him? To use my body and soul and leave me the next morning without a goodbye, without anything?
I deserved it.
But Heath wasn’t that man. To do such nasty things.
Craig was that man.
Heath wasn’t one to act. Last night couldn’t have been an act, what we’d shared. It was too bone shaking. Too visceral.
Craig was the one who perfected acts.
But then again, Heath had perfected the hatred toward me since I’d been back.
I couldn’t even call him.
Because I didn’t have his freaking number. I’d had it before I met Craig. In one of our many arguments about us, he’d snatched my phone, programmed his number into it and demand I use it “when I got my shit together.”
I would lie in bed at three in the morning after hours of staring at that number, wishing I could get my shit together and press call.
You’d think I would’ve memorized it by now.
Heath would’ve had the same number. Because Heath was not like me and did not lose phones at least once a month. So even if I hadn’t deleted his number when Craig and I had gotten engaged, I wouldn’t have the same phone to call him on. I could’ve called Lucy or Keltan to ask for it. But then of course, they’d realize what me asking for his number would mean and they’d make a big thing of it.
And it was a big thing.
I hoped the biggest of all things.
But I wanted to keep it small for as long as I could. Small enough to hold onto. Treasure. Keep to myself.
I stood in the middle of Heath’s living room holding my phone and my heart. I really hoped that the latter wasn’t going to get broken again.
Chapter Fourteen
Heath
He had left her. Without a note. Without waking her up.
He’d done so because she was dead to the world, she hadn’t even exhaled roughly when he moved her off him. Fuck, he loved that. The way she clung to every inch of him in her sleep. No way in fuck would he classify himself as a ‘cuddler.’ Ever. But he found that Polly attached to him, sleeping deep and peacefully—something he knew was rare for her—was something more than cuddling.
It was fucking everything.
Knowing how little sleep she got, seeing how finally at peace she was in his arms was what made him not wake her up. Fuck, it had almost stopped him getting out of bed at all. But this was their morning. This was a fresh fucking morning.
