As I lathered my hair, my mind raced as I planned out the words I’d say when I got down on bended knee. Miles, Miranda’s dad, entered my mind. He’d probably be frustrated by my spontaneous proposal. I knew he wanted me to pull out all the stops for his little girl. And I would have if I had more time. But after everything we’d been through the last few months, I didn’t want to waste another second.
Grandfather’s words at Christmas rushed back to me. “Go get your girl, and remember, kiss her often and never go to bed angry. Tomorrow isn’t promised.”
I swallowed hard, remembering how happy Miranda and I were back then. We were just starting out together, and I was already in love with her.
I scrubbed my body, smiling like a fool, my chest heavy with emotion.Tomorrow isn’t promised,I recited to myself.
I’d watched how Grandfather’s life changed in the blink of an eye when Grams died. How he aged ten years the first month without her. The heartache and loneliness in his sad eyes had wrecked me. Despite his severe grief, Grandfather, as the head of the St. James family, had somehow found it within himself to move forward without the love of his life. He was the strongest man I knew.
I wasn’t as strong as my grandfather. I couldn’t live without Miranda; she was myeverything.
Tonight, I’d secure our future, and I hoped she would want to get married soon. Before the end of the year would be my choice.
I reached for a towel before stepping out of our massive walk-in shower. Just as I put one foot on our heated bamboo floors, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye, and I turned to investigate it. The shelf next to mine in the shower was bare, which held Miranda’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I hadn’t noticed her bottles missing before.
I shrugged, figuring she needed to replenish them. I had more important things requiring my attention and wouldn’t give Miranda’s empty shelf another thought.
With my towel wrapped around my waist, I brushed my teeth, put a little gel in my dark, wavy hair, and slapped on aftershave.
It was now 5:52 p.m.
I rushed into the walk-in closet and grabbed a cobalt-blue button-down shirt off the bar. As I looked to the right at Miranda’s side, my skin prickled and my blood turned cold. I whipped around as my heart jumped into my throat.
All of her shoes, handbags, and clothes were missing. No French terry robe was hanging next to mine.
I ran out of the closet naked. I pulled out a pair of boxers from the dresser and slammed the drawer harder than needed.
I froze.
Her jewelry box on the dresser didn’t rattle from the forcefulness. It was gone. So were the romance novels on her nightstand and my favorite picture of her on my bedside table.
I held my breath, frantically tugging on my boxers in the middle of our bedroom. I didn’t see anything of Miranda’s, and I knew…
She left me.
Still refusing to believe any of this was real, I went to the dresser and flung open drawer after drawer, finding each one bare. I bent at the waist from the painful gut punch as my eyes locked on her keys in the top drawer. The gold starfish keychain shined back at me, our initials stabbing me in the heart: W+M.
And still, I refused to believe she was gone. I went back into the bathroom, then opened and slammed each empty drawer closed.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I ran into the living room and ripped open the desk drawer where we kept our mail and checkbooks. Another disappointing blow—only my stuff was inside.
I lifted my eyes to the spot on the desk where the ceramic bowl Miranda had bought in Carmel sat. It was bare.
It was like Miranda had never lived here.
The worst kind of panic took possession of my mind, my soul. This wasn’t a case of a person getting abducted. No. Miranda clearly left on her own. If my heart could cease beating, it would at this moment.
I needed to talk to her, convince her to come back to me, and I’d promise to never hurt her again. I snatched my phone off the dining table and called her… Disconnected.
“What the fuck is going on!” I yelled so loud, my throat burned as the words spewed from my mouth. Why was her phone disconnected? This shit was freaking me out. But there was one place I knew she had to be.
Fear started to set in as I called LA Premier. It was after six; the office would usually be closed by now. I prayed someone would answer, Gina or Lily… even Tate.
I needed answers. I needed to know where Miranda was and that she was okay.
“Pick up!” I roared as it rang for the fourth time.
By the fifth ring, I was just about to throw my cell phone at the wall when I heard, “LA Premier—”