I was waiting for Preacher to return from his run or from being at the hotel’s fitness center or wherever he was.

He hadn’t left a note.

So now it was…

No more sex.

No more kisses before he goes off and does whatever he’s doing.

And now, no more notes.

He wasn’t at band breakfast, I knew that.

He hadn’t been to one of those since well before Phoenix.

Which meant, neither had I.

I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there, waiting for him to come back.

I did know it was long enough for my forgotten cup of coffee to get cold.

But I heard the key in the lock, the door open, and shortly after, Preacher came sauntering into view.

His hair was wet with sweat, the curls behind his ears sticking to skin, his tee was plastered to his wide chest, molding the contours, and for once I didn’t want to jump him.

I wanted to burst into tears.

He’d just recovered from wiping his face with the hem of his tee when he caught sight of me sitting in bed, waiting for him, and his step faltered.

He got it together, grunting, “Hey.”

“Hey, honey.”

His gaze moved from me as he headed straight to the bathroom.

“You don’t have anything pressing for a few hours. Can we order room service and talk for a bit?” I asked.

“Shower,” he replied.

“Preacher—”

I got no more out because the door closed on the bathroom.

And the lock went.

I closed my eyes and gave myself a pep talk

I could do this.

I had to do this.

But how did I do this?

I was running into walls at every turn.

And they were fortified.

What else might I blow up if I threw a grenade?

The door to the bathroom opened and Preacher came out, hair wet, towel around his hips.

When he did, I remembered when I first saw him in nothing but a towel.

Cynthia.

The way he was angry, but when he’d looked at me, that had faded from his face.

Right.

Grenade it was.

I pushed out of my position, set my coffee aside and climbed out of bed.

He was pawing through his bag.

I got close.

“Sweetheart, we can’t go on like this,” I said quietly.

He straightened, his side was to me, but he didn’t turn fully to me.

He looked down his nose at me.

And stated, “You’re right. We can’t.”

Sweet relief swept through me.

Finally, he was going to talk.

“Babe, I gotta get off,” he continued. “You’re not down to put out, then you need to take a hike so I can take care of business. You’re not up for participating, not feelin’ like an audience.”

He didn’t want to have sex.