I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, and find my jeans, pulling them on but leaving them undone as I go in search of the beauty, hoping I can encourage her to come back to bed so we can have a repeat of what we did when we returned to her house last night. Maybe we could spend the rest of the day curled up, after we’re both sated, and veg out, watching TV and ordering take-out. There are all sorts of foods here I’m bound and determined to try.
I grab my phone before I head in search of her, seeing a reminder in my notifications. My original flight home for the weekend is supposed to depart in five hours. As soon as I find Erin, I’ll call my assistant and ask her to rebook it for either tomorrow or Monday. If it were up to me, I’d stay long after that, take vacation time and spend weeks here getting to really know my woman, but I have obligations in California in a couple days, and it’s not in me to break any prior commitments when people are counting on me with too short of notice for them to find a replacement.
I check the bathroom two doors down, but the lights are out with no one inside. I go to the bedroom I assume is Emmy’s, peeking into the en suite there with my fingers crossed, hoping to find Erin bathing in the sexy claw-footed tub I saw last night, but no luck. It’s empty as well.
I gallop down the stairs, ignoring the niggling feeling I have at the back of my mind telling me her presence is missing as I head into the kitchen. Nothing. Not even the lights are on. Frowning, I hurry back past the staircase and glance into the living room, stopping and holding my breath in order to listen.
Silence.
There isn’t another soul in the house.
Maybe she went to get us some breakfast, I tell myself, as I go back into the kitchen, pulling out one of the stools to sit and wait for her. Surely any minute she’ll come strolling back inside with a bag full of french pastries and a tray of coffee. Oh, or maybe even some Cajun boudin breakfast tacos. My mouth waters at the thought, and I force myself to relax, pulling up my Instagram feed.
My brows lift at the notifications. I have hundreds of tags, and my heart sinks into my gut when I see the candid shots of me out and about throughout the night, on the tour, on Bourbon Street, in the bars Erin took me to, and even a photo of us kissing beneath a gallery on our way back here early this morning.
I blow out a breath, trying to calm my racing pulse. “Okay, that’s fine. Everything is fine. It may be all over the place, but no one knows who she is, so they’re not going to bother h— Oh… fuck,” I growl, seeing the comment under TMZ’s post.
OMG! That’s Dr. Bazzara! She’s my therapist. Go on wit yo bad self, @ebNOLAshrink!
And I hold my breath as I click to see the seventy-eight replies beneath the comment.
There are comments ranging from Lucky girl! to What’s so special about her? The latter making me want to reach through the phone and pop them in their blasphemous mouth before explaining every single wonderful trait Erin possesses.
I click on her handle that was tagged and suddenly find myself smiling, scrolling through the countless photos, mostly of her and Emmy together. I pause, staring at one of her best friend in a wedding dress as Erin uses a tissue to dab under Emmy’s eye.
Can’t let tears ruin this awesome makeup job, not even happy ones! #mybestfriendswedding, the caption states, and my heart thuds in my chest knowing we were in the same place at the same time all those years ago. I was down in the kitchen preparing everything for the reception dinner, but we were right there, breathing the same air.
Unlike now.
“Where have you gone, sugar?” I murmur, glancing at the time and seeing I’ve been scrolling through her feed for nearly forty-five minutes now. Surely it wouldn’t have taken this long for her to just go grab us some food.
And then my gut sinks once again. I had been momentarily distracted, getting to look through all the pictures and reading the captions to gather her inner thoughts of what was happening in each shot. Now I remember what led me there in the first place.
What if she saw all the tags already? She seems to post something daily, so it’s not a hard assumption to make that she checks her notifications throughout the day. Had she woken up to them, her Instagram having blown up over the hours we slept, curled up in her big bed? Had it scared her enough to make her run off, hoping I wouldn’t be here when she got back?