By six, I feel like absolute shit. Another Snickers would be a bad idea because now I’m not just foggy, but queasy. I wish I could throw up, but I know that won’t happen because unless I’m food poisoned, my stomach hangs on to every ounce of food that makes its way into it.
Go home early and get some rest. The model isn’t due today.
Great idea, but I can’t leave this early, especially when I’m so close to finishing. Just because something isn’t due today doesn’t mean I can wait on it—there’s always something else I could be doing.
When it’s nine, I finally feel comfortable enough to leave. I manage the short drive home. Thank God it isn’t raining and the traffic is okay.
The official written offer from the Blaire Group is waiting in my mailbox. Took ’em long enough. Something about the way it arrived feels wrong, but I’m too tired to figure it out. Right now, all that matters is that I have the offer in hand.
Since I’m getting the mail anyway, I grab everything else as well. I toss it all on the dining table without bothering to sort it out, then strip and land face-first on my bed. Once horizontal, I instantly feel a hundred times better.
My eyelids grow heavy, but I’m too cold to sleep. I pull the sheets closer and hug Okumasama.
A loud banging at my door wakes me up. I blink, rub my bleary eyes and check the alarm clock. Noon. Shit! I can’t believe it’s this late already.
The banging continues. I stay in bed, hoping Sasha will answer it because I really don’t want to leave my bed this weekend—
Wait. She’s slaving away at the office.
More banging. It can’t be a delivery—no delivery person is this insistent.
Ah, shit! Emmett! I was supposed to meet him at the airport more than an hour ago for our trip to Napa! Shock and guilt race through me. How could I have forgotten?
I hop out of bed, then freeze with one hand braced on the wall as my bedroom does the same eerie waltz that the office did yesterday. When the room quits spinning, I start to reach for my purse so I can call Emmett, but the banging on the door won’t stop.
“All right already!” Take care of this first, then call Emmett.
Shrugging into a robe, I stumble toward the door. “Who is it?” I call out.
“It’s me!”
Emmett…?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emmett
When Amy doesn’t show at the airport at ten thirty, I figure it’s the traffic. It’s L.A., and shit happens.
When she doesn’t show by ten forty-five, I start to worry.
The worry turns to panic when she doesn’t answer my texts or calls.
I stride out of the terminal. It isn’t like Amy to ghost someone. She’s one of the most responsible people I know. Unlike some of the women I’ve dated, she also wouldn’t say yes to something she wasn’t too keen on and then show her displeasure by canceling the last minute or not showing. The only time she canceled on her ex-boyfriends was when I dumped so much work on her that she couldn’t make it to their dates.
And I made sure she didn’t have any urgent deadlines from Friday to Sunday.
After tossing my carry-on into the car, I drive to Amy’s place. Her car is in the lot. So she’s home.
What’s going on?
I go up and bang on the door. There’s no immediate answer.
Is she okay? She lives in a safe neighborhood, but…
With someone else, I might assume she’s being passive-aggressive. But this is Amy. Miss Upfront. A woman who is candid enough to say all she wants is sex—and list her terms—wouldn’t play games.
I knock harder and wonder if the super’s available to let me in. Normally they’d refuse, but if I make a compelling case that she might be hurt…