What the hell is he doing here?
My mind spins, looking for answers, and I can’t grasp a single one. My confusion must be obvious, because Creighton raises an eyebrow.
“You don’t remember last night?”
Last night? My memory might as well be a black hole. I shake my head, and splinters of pain shoot from behind my eyeballs.
Whoa, Holly. Take it easy.
I look at Creighton once more, but his dark expression sends a new and different kind of pain through my head. It’s a look I’ve seen before. Creighton is pissed. The reason for it comes out quickly.
“The fact that you expected another man to be in your bedroom pisses me the fuck off, Holly.”
Big swamping waves invade my stomach, notching up the nausea at the thought of the coming confrontation—one I’m not nearly ready for—and I swing my legs off the bed and bolt into my tiny bathroom. Dry heaves rack my body until tears stream down my face.
A glass of water appears beside me magically. Well, if you consider Creighton Karas to be magic. I refuse to give my opinion on the matter.
Mumbling my thanks, I take a sip and spit it into the toilet. I feel like road kill, and not a single memory of last night surfaces from the black hole. Not a good sign.
Creighton takes the water from me and produces a damp washcloth before leaving the tiny bathroom.
I wipe my face and carefully stand. A peek in the mirror reveals that I also look like road kill resurrected from the dead.
I wipe at the raccoon eyes left by my mascara, and attempt to look less awful. My hair is tangled and knotted, so I grab a hair tie off the counter and attempt to pull it away from my face into some semblance of order, but it’s really not happening. Nothing is going to touch this hot mess but a shower.
Wary, I poke my head out of the bathroom door. Creighton is sitting on my bed, looking completely out of place in my white and pale lilac room. His eyes are on me, and his pissed-off vibe hasn’t lessened a bit.
“I, um, I’m going to grab a shower.”
The nod he gives me is stiff, and I can’t read anything beyond not frigging pleased in his expression.
Frowning, I slip back into the bathroom and shut the door. After stripping off my rumpled clothes, I turn the ancient showerhead all the way to Hot and hope it can wash away . . . something. Everything? I don’t even know anymore.
I came here to get away, to regroup, but part of me is really happy to see Creighton in my bedroom. I thought I’d be ashamed to have him see this side of me, but something about it is actually . . . freeing?
Like I no longer have anything to hide. Like he’s seen all of me, including the innermost and least fame-worthy part of me, and he’s still here.
I smile into the nearly scalding water, and when I feel something like hope bubbling up inside me, I can’t help but start singing in the shower.
After I brush the hell out of my teeth and my tongue is mostly numb from Listerine, I reach for the door handle. The smile on my face is wide, and I feel almost human again.
I’m ready to talk to Creighton, ready to lay out my cards and see if we can figure out where we go from here.
My room is silent and empty when I push open the door. I hang my towel on the back of my chair, and dig some yoga pants and a T-shirt out of my bag. Listening for sounds of life in the house, I pad down the stairs.
There’s more silence when I enter the kitchen. My stomach churns, although it was calm only a few minutes ago, and I think I’m going to be sick again.
Creighton’s gone, and there’s no sign to suggest I didn’t just imagine his presence.
With measured steps, I cross the room and peek out the lace curtains to the front yard and gravel drive.
Empty.
I don’t remember what Creighton drove last night due to the memory thief called tequila, but I know he must have a car. There’s no garage for it to hide in.
Which means . . . he’s really gone.
Gone.
I stumble back from the window as the realization hits me.
Gone. I slide into a chair at the kitchen table that takes up the center of the room. My elbow smacks into the edge, and I wince at the pain shooting up my arm. My eyes sting with tears when I see the note that says simply:
Two words.
“What the hell?” I say to the empty room. “What does that mean?” I don’t know why I ask the question, because the ivy-printed wallpaper isn’t going to answer me.
Then it hits me. Two words. Each time I’ve left him, I left a note with two words: Good-bye, Creighton.
Is this just him being an asshole and making a point? I blink back the tears. I don’t have time for tears.