I let out a long breath, shifting from foot to foot. God, I hope so.
“How is he?” Erin leans forward, her dark eyes narrowing. “It’s like he fell off the face of the earth. I’ve called him many times to do something together, but he either doesn’t answer or says he’s busy.”
Torn, I look from her to Audrey. Erin is Zane’s friend, and maybe I should tell her about my worries—then again, if Zane doesn’t want to tell her, who am I to spill his secrets? Besides, I really want to go home in case he’s back.
“He’s okay,” Audrey says.
“His sister’s sick,” Asher says at the same time. “Dakota will tell us if there’s anything to be worried about. Right, Dakota?”
“Yeah, of course.” And I leave as fast as my feet can take me.
***
As soon as I enter the apartment, I know Zane is back. There’s a jacket thrown on the sofa, a bottle of amber liquid on the table and a half-empty glass.
I frown as I pad inside and close the door behind me with a soft click. I approach the sofa. Drinking already? This doesn’t look good.
A noise makes me look up, and there he is, standing at the kitchen door. He’s dressed only in his worn jeans and his ink, looking tired and drop-dead gorgeous. His almond-shaped eyes light up when he sees me.
“Missed you, girl,” he says quietly and pushes off the doorjamb.
Missed you, too, I think, but my lips won’t move. My gaze snags on his bare chest.
Is he doing it on purpose? Taking off his shirt to render me speechless? All that smooth, inked skin stretched over taut muscle, the studs glinting in his brown nipples, the thin, dark trail of hairs leading into his low-slung waistband…
Whoa. I suddenly feel in desperate need of a cold shower.
I force myself to snap out of the eye-candy feast. “The guys were asking about you. About your sister. How is she?”
He flinches, a tiny recoil, and the blood drains from his face. Instead of replying, he moves toward the coffee table and grabs the whiskey bottle.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a glass or two.”
“Have you eaten today?” I take a step toward him, and he freezes in the process of unscrewing the bottle.
“Can’t remember,” he whispers.
Worry makes my gut clench. “I made food. You need to eat to sober up.”
His hand tightens around the bottle, as if he wants to crush it in his fist. “Maybe I don’t wanna fucking sober up.”
I swallow hard, studying him more carefully. His face is drawn with exhaustion, as if he hasn’t slept since he left the apartment yesterday morning, and there’s a familiar shadow in his eyes. I’ve seen it before—after the episode at the park, after his flashbacks, after his nightmares. A shadow of pain.
I clench my hands, unclench them. Take a step in his direction, and another. He watches me warily as I reach for his hand and clasp it in mine.
“I made you seafood risotto,” I whisper. “Erin said you like seafood.”
He’s still as if made of stone, his dark eyes on my lips, his body tense.
I inch my other hand up his arm and grip his bicep. I don’t know why, but I think he’s not ready for a hug right now. Not ready for anyone to get too close. He’s like a wild animal, trapped and about to bolt.
“It’s spicy,” I go on, pretending I haven’t noticed anything. “I hope not too much. I got yogurt to mild it down, just in case.”
A small sigh escapes him, the steel-corded muscles under my fingers relaxing a fraction. “A spicy risotto?” he rumbles.
“Yeah. Southern recipe. Courtesy of my Grand-grandmother Louisiana.”