ChapterEleven
Lachlan
The harsh streaksof early sunlight jarred me awake. Next was the scent that had me rolling over into full consciousness. Perfume. Rose. Maybe lilies? Vanilla? Something else. What was that?
Considering I never brought anyone back here, where had it come from?
I reached over to the other side of the bed, and it was cool to the touch. But the scent grew stronger. I took another whiff, inhaling deeply, letting my lungs fill with it, letting it permeate my skin. And then I remembered. Saff.
Jesus Christ.
That had me sitting straight up in bed, the sheet falling to my waist. Okay, so much for rules being broken. "Saff? Are you in here?"
I didn't hear the shower or anything in my bedroom, but I'd showed her around last night to the other room. Maybe she hadn't wanted to wake me?
I had zero compunction about climbing out of bed and letting my morning wood swing in the wind. After all, I'd been gifted for a reason. Might as well show it off.
"Saff? Where are you?"
I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear them, somehow sure that once I cleared out the sleep I would find her, maybe sitting at my breakfast bar? What the hell?
You know what this is. She ghosted.
There was no way. Last night hadn't been some casual hookup thing.
Maybe not for you.
No. Fucking hell, no.
I hurried down the stairs into the other bedroom on the first floor, sure I would find her there.
But nothing. No Saff.
She clearly wasn’t there. Nothing was disturbed. Hell, the door wasn't even open. I went into the bathroom to double-check, even though I knew she wasn't there.
I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my waist, suddenly less interested in my morning wood swinging in the wind.
Fucking hell.
She had fucking ghosted me. Such bullshit.
Maybe she left a note?
At that point I figured it was wishful thinking, because if she'd snuck out in the middle of the night, or in our case, very early in the morning, there was no way she left a note. But one could always hope.
Sure enough, no note in the kitchen or the living room. My mood was decidedly sour until I saw the slip of paper on the nightstand.
My ego restored, I jogged over and snapped it up, ready to find a phone number, email address, something. But no. Instead, in the most perfect calligraphy-type penmanship I had ever seen, were the simple words, Thank you for the first aid. And I could do nothing else but slump back onto my bed.
How had that gone so wrong? Last night had been real. I hadn’t imagined that.
But Jesus, she'd really fucking ghosted me.
That sharp, possessive side of me was irritated, because we’d had fun. More than fun. She'd come several times. And we'd had real, honest-to-God conversations. So where the fuck had she gone?
I laid back on the bed, irritated with myself. Irritated with her. Reminding myself that I was not going to go back to the club and search the cameras for her face ID and then make a call or two to a dodgy mate who might be able to get facial recognition and help me find her. Because even I had standards.
Except that was exactly what I wanted to do. Drag her back here and keep her in bed for a week. See if she wanted to leave then.