Sizzling romances about music industry editors falling in love with the wrong men, especially grumps in immaculate suits who—
I groan, dropping my head into my pillow, thrusting my laptop across the bed.
Nope.
God, I’m dying even with the air conditioning cranked up.
Sighing, I roll on my back, flopping my arms out and letting the cool air from the window unit blow across the front of today’s sweaty t-shirt.
It’s one I accidentally stole from Roland after wearing it home as a shirt-dress. I never gave it back.
I don’t know what made me wear it today.
Even after washing, even after lying here sweating in it all morning...
It still smells like him.
And it hurts worse than I ever want to admit.
So much for thinking letting myself wallow a little would be useful.
Why do I miss him?
Why do I miss an illusion?
I can’t answer that. I just can’t.
My throat tightens, trying to work up to the big ugly cry I’ve had building since I flew down here. But a knock on my door stops it and helps get my breathing under control.
“Mom? It’s open.”
My mother cracks open the door and peeks inside.
“Sweetheart?” She looks nervous, confused, even uncomfortable. “You have a visitor. He’s waiting to speak with you outside.”
Visitor? Here? And someone who put that wary look on Mom’s face...
“Is it Dad?” I push up, frowning at her.
She blinks rapidly, then flushes.
“Alvin? Oh, no, dear—he did call last night, worried about you but—”
“He did? Really?” I cut her off.
Dad called and didn’t talk to me. But he did talk to Mom.
And now Mom’s blushing.
Wow.
...maybe things aren’t what I thought with them.
But I’m more confused and distracted by who else it could be. So I slide off the bed, the duvet sticking to the backs of my thighs below my shorts, and slip over to the wide French doors off the balcony so I can take a look.
It’s like a hammer to the heart when I see the tall figure below, unmistakable as ever.
Roland.
He’s just loitering around down there in his perfectly pressed shirt and vest, only both are limp with sweat in the damp, punishing heat. Same for his disarrayed hair.
I almost want to smile.
That silly damn Chicago boy thought that just because he could handle Texas heat, he’d be fine in Louisiana.
They never quite comprehend the humidity until they feel it, do they?
What’s he doing here, though? Especially pacing the sidewalk outside the hotel’s front door, looking like he’s in an ER wing, waiting for bad news.
Oh, no.
My heart jumps in my throat.
Did something happen to Easterly?
That’s the only reason I can imagine for him coming here—something happened to that poor girl. And since I blocked his number on my phone, this was the only way he could tell me.
It’s that scary concern that drives me out onto the balcony, where I throw the doors open and make myself move into the blaring sunlight.
Every step feels like mud.
I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to talk to him, exchanging clinical info like we were never anything at all. All about a tragedy we should’ve been able to stop together.
And if it wasn’t for Easterly, I’d bolt back inside and tell my mother to run him right off the property.
Curling my hands against the ornate iron railing, I pin my eyes on him below.
Okay. Let’s do this.
“Roland!” I call softly.
He stops pacing immediately, jerking and staring up at me.
“Callie,” he says—my name is so ragged on his lips it turns me inside out.
“W-what are you doing here? Is...is Easterly o-o-okay?”
Yep. There’s that stutter again, determined to embarrass me to death.
Roland’s face goes blank.
“Easterly?” He stops and rakes a hand through his sweat-clumped hair. He looks terrible. Like he hasn’t slept in days, dark shadows lining his eyes. “She’s fine, as far as I know. I haven’t heard anything firsthand, but she’s been seen in public venues...I checked.” He shakes his head like he’s speaking another language I don’t understand. “I didn’t come to talk about her.”
“Huh? Then why...?”
“Because I’m sorry. I’m sorry as hell.” It comes out of him so roughly it nearly makes me collapse against the railing, hearing such an arrogant, proud man rasping an apology. “I never should’ve gotten so pissed at you over Easterly. I’ll find a way to get her trust back. You don’t have to quit the magazine. I can still fix this, Callie. Fuck, if there’s anything I can do, I can spin this stupid story like a merry-go-round. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.” He lets out a harsh laugh. “By the time I’m done, I’ll be a hideous predator and you’ll be my victim. Pressured into doing my dirty work and dirty deeds. There won’t be a news agency in the country that doesn’t have sympathy for you.”
I stare down at him. Why?