I hadn’t fully come awake yet, but I already felt his absence next to me. Last night we’d fallen asleep wrapped up in each other, but as I reached across the bed to confirm whether he was still there, I came up empty. My hand stilled there for a moment, fingers brushing against nothing but cool sheets, before I forced myself to keep moving. I found my phone after a second pass under my pillow, dragged it out, and squinted at the screen.
11:02 a.m.
“Fuck.”
It was unlike me to sleep this late. Every morning at six, I ran. Five miles, same route carved into muscle memory. It didn’t matter if it was raining or snowing, if I’d slept two hours or six. I ran because it kept everything else in line. It was the start I needed to structure my day. Anything else could go wrong or fall off schedule, but I needed that one thing to remain the same.
Except today.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my gaze sweeping the room in a quick, practiced assessment that had nothing to do with security and everything to do with denial. Because I still wanted to be wrong and for him to be somewhere else in the bedroom.
He was not.
The sheets on his side of the bed were cold, which meant he had been gone for some time. Not just a quick trip to the bathroom, then. Of course he’d left while I was sleeping. A humorless breath left me, more exhale than laugh, really. I dropped my head for a second, staring down at the mattress as if it might offer some explanation where one wasn’t really needed.
This wasn’t new. Leo had done this before. The last time we had sex, the second I turned my back, he’d run out on me. I still had no idea where he’d fled to, and he was already pulling this stunt again. How much longer did I have to put up with this game of him pulling my strings? He controlled everything about our sex life, whether we had one or not, when it started, and when it ended.
And I let him.
I let him because I didn’t want to push too much and because I was being sensitive about his husband’s death, when in truth, I didn’t care one fuck about Bradley. It was good the bastard was dead, or I wouldn’t have met Leo, and that would have been fucking awful.
Leo had gotten under my skin like no one else had. But would he ever like me a little? I wasn’t stupid enough to think that the incredible sex was enough to carry a relationship. If he didn’t start caring about me half as much as I did him, everything I’d been doing to win him over would be in vain.
I’d thought last night would be different. The sex hadn’tjust been skin against skin. Our sex had been deeper, more meaningful, and I’d felt it in my soul.
But I’m wrong. Leo obviously doesn’t give a shit about me.
I dragged a hand over my face, shunning the thought before it could settle too deeply. Last nightwasdifferent. He might deny it, but I’d seen the way he looked at me, felt the way his hands lingered on my body, the way he kissed me over and over again like he couldn’t get enough.
Unless I’d imagined that too. Maybe all of it was wishful thinking, and somewhere, Leo was having a good laugh at the way I always fell so easily for him.
“Idiot,” I muttered, my voice low in the empty room. I wasn’t sure if I meant him or me. More than likely me.
I sat there a moment longer than necessary, listening. The silence pressed in from all sides, thick and absolute. There was no movement downstairs that I could hear. No running water. No quiet sounds of someone moving through the house.
I got up because there was always the possibility—little, though it might be—that I was wrong. I went through the motions in the bathroom on instinct alone. Took a piss, brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth out harder than necessary like I could scrub the frustration from the back of my throat. Water hit my face next, so cold it forced me to suck in a breath, and I braced my hands on the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.
The same face and expression stared back at me, but inside, I wasn’t the same man. Leo’s actions hurt, and the worst part was that he didn’t even seem to care. The only one who mattered to him was his precious Brad.
Fuck.
I hated feeling jealous over a dead man because I couldn’t do anything about it. After a second, I straightened up and forced my teeth to unclench.
I’m not giving up. Not by a long shot.
Those feelings that had emanated from Leo last night had to be real. No one could fake such passion. He was just scared, and I needed to be patient with him. He’d spent over a decade loving that asshole, after all. Leo was a decent man. I wouldn’t feel the way I did about him if he was any other way, and a part of me grudgingly respected that he wasn’t so fickle as to move on at the drop of a hat.
I only needed that level of devotion to be directed at me. Once I had it, I knew he’d be locked in for life. The thought of having Leo as mine made my eyes prick with tears, but I didn’t cry because it wasn’t wired in my DNA.
The stairs creaked faintly under my weight as I headed down. I didn’t rush, even though I felt the urge to. I kept my pace steady, my breathing even, like this was just another morning. I stepped into the kitchen and stopped.
Empty.
My gut felt even more hollow, and it wasn’t due to a need for food, although my stomach was grumbling. There was no sign of him. No evidence that he’d lingered even a second longer than necessary.
Before Leo, I’d never realized how alone I was. I worked for Maxim and had several men who reported to me, but I’d never really connected with anyone on a personal level. His absence reminded me of how empty my life had been before him.
I leaned back against the counter, the cool surface pressing into my spine as my gaze moved slowly over the room. The place looked exactly as it did the day I’d bought it—clean but so damn empty. Not even a chair to sit on. There was nothing that suggested someone actuallylivedhere.