Wait. What the hell am I even thinking? I quickly shake my head at my own thoughts, silently chastising my subconscious before forcing myself to unravel from the warmth provided by Harley’s embrace, careful not to wake him. I stand, collecting my shoes and purse from the floor before tiptoeing out of the living room. But then I find myself pausing in the doorway, glancing back over my shoulder, and my eyes travel to Harley, to where I notice his arm is now clutching the throw cushion, as if in my absence he desperately needs something to hold on to, as if he’s afraid to sleep alone, and at that thought an unexpected emotion comes over me, one I’ve never felt before, one I never expected to feel when it comes to Harley Shaw.

***

I spend almost twenty minutes in the shower when I get home. The hot water rolling over my tense muscles feels like heaven. The steam works wonders on my skin. But nothing helps to ease the conflicted thoughts racing through my mind. My mind keeps flashing back to last night. From Nash’s confusing, heart-stopping text message, to the way Harley’s arm felt when it was wrapped around me so warm and protectively, to the way his intoxicating scent invaded every one of my senses.

I shake my head at that last thought. I can’t be thinking of Harley like this. I need to get my head back in the game, and it takes all I have to focus on those three words still burning a hole in my heart.

I miss you …

I’d been trying to pry into Nash’s relationship with Anna, and I thought maybe I’d pushed too hard, especially after his curt responses. But then, out of the blue, he tells me he misses me? I’ve never been so confused. I desperately want to ask him what he meant by that message, but I simply cannot bring myself to do it. I sure as hell don’t want him to know that I’ve been overthinking it, and, to be honest, I’m terrified what he might say.

After coming out of the bathroom, I walk into my bedroom to see my cell phone ringing from where it’s charging on the bedside table. I don’t know the number flashing on the screen, so I answer with my most polite voice in case it’s a customer.

“Hello, Alice Murphy speaking,” I answer with a smile.

“Murph?” A female voice comes through. “Murph, it’s me. Anna.”

And at that, my eyes bulge and instinctively I clutch at the towel I’m wearing as if I’m sinking and it’s my only lifeline. My stomach drops at the thought that she knows something’s up. Has she seen the text message Nash sent me? I sure as hell wouldn’t be too happy if my fiancé was messaging his ex, telling her how he misses her.

“Hello?” Anna’s high-pitched voice rings through the phone.

“Um, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. Hey, Anna …?”