I clear my throat. “No. I’m fine. I’ll go to the gym, maybe. I don’t want to ruin your morning.” She starts to object, but before she can sacrifice her romance on the altar of my unrequited heart, I insist, “I’m seriously fine. But I need a coffee date tomorrow morning, okay? Before work? Seven thirty at Dr. Insomnia’s Coffee and Tea Emporium.”
“I’ll be there, babe,” she says. “And I’m truly happy to come over today if you change your mind. I’m always here for you.”
Always here for you . . .
That was what Graham said . . .
And last night wasn’t the first time he said it.
A fragment of memory tugs at my mind. It repeats, urging me to listen.
Only I’m not sure why. But it’s loud, and insistent, so I pay attention as it demands I go searching for something that must be found. I thank Chloe, hang up, and roll out of bed before Stephen King can get his teeth on my socks, headed for the closet where I keep all my most treasured things.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Graham
That was the worst night’s sleep of my life. And I’ve slept in a coach
seat on a red-eye across the country. Hell, I’ve hit the sack on the floor of my office for an hour of shut-eye after working all night.
But this tossing and turning sucks.
She’s not next to me when I wake, and that feels like an affront to the fabric of the universe. When I wander into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, the sink reminds me of her.
The motherfucking sink.
The stove holds a memory, for Christ’s sake.
Good thing I don’t use it, or I’d think of her every time I cooked, and now I’ve found yet another reason to never make a meal I can’t take out or order in.
I heave a sigh, trudge back down the hall, and curse my bed once more for taunting me with images of her on it, in it, curled up with me.
Hell, it’s been less than twelve hours, and everything is a reminder of the woman I fell unexpectedly ass over elbow for.
It’s a cruel joke. Is this what a broken heart feels like? How does anyone endure this? Get through it? All I know to do when my mind is a traffic pileup is to run. Maybe it will work with a piled-up heart, too.
I pull on my basketball shorts, lace up some sneakers, and get the hell out of my lonely shell of a house.
Cue the sad song.
Yep, Taylor Swift, time to call me. I’ll inspire your next breakup tune.
I hit the sidewalk, lengthening my stride instantly, running hard so my mind goes as blank as it possibly can. So I can let the physical overpower the emotional.
I groan at the thought.
Emotions are not my strong suit. Hell, they’re not even in my deck.
All I can do is hope a workout will rid her from my mind. That has to be what the average guy does when he gets fucked by love, right?
Trouble is, a run is what I do to think.
To sort through problems at work.
To find solutions.
And my brain has a brilliant idea as I finish my workout outside of Central Park. It’s telling me to go talk to a friend.