Don't Tell (Don't 1)

“All right. Then we’re headed back,” he announced.

He jumped from the bed and threw a shirt in his bag.

“But—” I felt the defeat in me change to elated surprise. He was sincere. Vaughn started canvassing the room, gathering our things. “You’re ok with this?” I questioned.

“Work happens. We have other weekends. You can’t take a chance like this.”

I stood from the bed and folded my sweater in half. “Thank you.”

He stopped packing and looked at me. “I’ll get you home.”

We shoved the rest of our things in our bags. I did a final sweep to make sure I didn’t leave anything in the shower before Vaughn collected the key to check out.

I looked up at the inn from the front seat. I could see our window. Something had happened between us here. Something magical and unbelievable. Something that had seeped into my soul, binding me to Vaughn in an unimaginable way.

“Ready to go?” He climbed behind the wheel.

“Not really, but I have to find my client. What if something bad has happened?”

“I can help you if you want.”

He pulled away from the vineyard and we turned onto the highway after meandering through country roads.

“Help me find her? You’re serious?” I looked at him.

He pressed his sun

glasses to the bridge of his nose. The aviators had a different level of sex appeal on his structured face.

“Yes. By the time we get back it will be late afternoon. We’ll track her down and we can still finish off our weekend on a high note.” He grinned. “I have selfish motivations.”

“Really, you don’t have to do that. It’s my mess.”

All I could think about was how eerily reminiscent this was of Garrett. The familiar tightening in my chest returned. How many times had I searched for him? How many times had I called his friends desperate for answers?

He squeezed my knee. “Em, I’m going to help you.”

“All right.” I wasn’t used to it. Accepting help. Even the offer was foreign. I was the one who always solved the crisis. I was the foot soldier. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. I want to do this.” I knew he wasn’t flirting anymore. He was genuine.

The rest of the drive we listened to music while I reminded myself Lana Foley and my brother had nothing in common. Their only connection was not returning my calls. The commonality stopped there. It had to.

Two hours later Vaughn pulled up in front of my apartment.

“Is your roommate here this weekend?” he asked.

“No. She texted and said she was staying with her boyfriend. I think she had to work most of the weekend anyway.”

“Think I’ll ever meet her?”

“I’d like that. She’s fun, but also a workaholic.”

He chuckled. “You do realize you’re the one working on a Saturday.”

“Touche’.”

“Where do we start to look for your client?”