Chapter 85 (1/2)

When I step out of my car and approach the front door, my anger and anxiety grow. The way she was talking, the way she sounded . . . it was like she wasn’t in control of her own actions.

The door is unlocked—of course it is—and I make my way through the living room and down the hall. Hands shaking, I push the door to her bedroom open, and my chest tightens when I find her bed empty. It’s not only empty, it’s untouched—perfectly made, the corners folded in that way that’s impossible to re-create. I’ve tried it—it’s impossible to make a bed like Tessa can.

“Tessa!” I call as I walk into the bathroom across the hall. I keep my eyes closed as I turn the light on. Not hearing anything, I open my eyes.

Nothing.

My breath is released in a heavy pant, and I move to the next room. Where the fuck is she?

“Tess!” I yell again, louder this time.

After searching nearly the entire fucking mansion, I can barely breathe. Where is she? The only rooms left are Vance’s bedroom and a locked room upstairs. I’m not sure if I want to open that door . . .

I’ll check the patio and yard, and if she’s not there, I have no fucking clue what I will do.

“Theresa! Where the hell are you? This isn’t funny, I swear—” I stop yelling as I take in the curled-up ball on the patio lounge chair.

Approaching, I see that Tessa’s knees are tucked up to her stomach and her arms are wrapped around her chest, as if she fell asleep while trying to hold herself together.

All of my anger is dissolved when I kneel down beside her. I push her blond hair away from her face and will myself not to burst into fucking hysterics now that I know she’s okay. Fuck, I was so worried about her.

With my pulse racing, I lean into her and run my thumb along her bottom lip. I don’t know why I did that, actually; it just sort of happened, but I sure as hell don’t regret it when her eyes flutter open and she groans.

“Why are you outside?” I ask, my voice loud and strained.

She winces, clearly put off by the volume of my words.

Why aren’t you inside? I’ve been worried fucking sick for you, going over every possible scenario in my head for hours now, I want to say.

“Thank God you were asleep” comes out instead. “I’ve been calling you, I was worried about you.”

She sits up, holding her neck as if her head might fall off. “Hardin?”

“Yes, Hardin.”

She squints in the dark and rubs her neck. When she moves to stand, an empty bottle of wine falls to the concrete patio and cracks in half.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, bending down to try to pick up the broken glass.

I gently push her hand away and wrap my fingers around hers. “Don’t touch that. I’ll get it later. Let’s get inside.” I help her stand.

“How’d . . . you get . . . here?” Her speech is stunted, and I don’t even want to know how much wine she drank after the line went dead. I saw at least four empty bottles in the kitchen.

“I drove, how else?”