Page 114 of A Bossy Roommate

Through thick and thin.

I need to show her how serious I am about her, about us.

I want to avoid any possibility of doubts or hesitation on her part that could jeopardize our relationship, particularly considering the numerous uncertainties she’s faced in her past.

She had been dumped at the altar, her dream shattered, and shortly thereafter, I’d asked her to fake marry me.

It’s up to me to make things right.

After the second interview,I hop on my motorcycle and pull out my phone to call Eden. I want to say hi. Hear her voice. Tell her that the interview took longer than expected—even though I left as quickly as possible without appearing impolite—and that I’m on my way. She doesn’t pick up. She’s probably chatting with Hattie.

Before I can text her, I get a message from Bradley.

All it says is:

Call me.

Shit. That doesn’t sound good. I hit dial, and it only rings once before it goes to voice mail. I leave him a message saying that I can’t reach him.

I kick down.

Everything is still up in the air. Eden is the one thing I have to “nail down,” andnotin the bedroom. I want—no, need her with me, always. While the future is unclear, one thing is evident: She has to be an integral part of it. The rest will unfold in due time. First, I have to stop by the jewelry store. Next, I need to visit our local bakery.

Time to celebrate.

When I get home,cupcake box in hand, Hattie pokes her head out and tries to greet me. I hurry past her, glad that I don’t have the time to stop. I’m not a monster—I’m busy, knee-deep in things to tackle. I need to talk with Eden. I need to ask her something important. Putting everything else out of my mind, I unlock the door and head inside.

In the apartment, everything is quiet.

“Eden?”

Something seems off. Without taking off my boots or anything else, I march straight to our bedroom, hoping she’s maybe gone to bed.

She’s not in bed.

She’s not in the bathroom either, or on the balcony. She’s not in the laundry room.

I rush to the gym. It’s empty. When she first moved in, I’d given her an earful on how it was off-limits during my sessions, how it would throw off my entire routine. Just this morning, I thought how I yearn for nothing more than to have her by my side, and not just in our gym or singing loudly in the shower, but everywhere we go, accompanying me throughout all my endeavors, extending to every aspect of our lives.

She’s not in the guest suite either. “Eden, baby girl, where are you?”

I rush back to our bedroom.

That’s when I finally notice. All her stuff is gone. Her clothes, her shoes, all her bags.

She’s left.

What. The. Fuck.

She ran away?

She ran awayfrom me?

Here I was, thinking we were fucking happy, and she’s run off? What the hell has happened?

Rushing around like a madman, cupcake box in one hand, fishing for my phone with the other, I check every single room of the apartment. I dial her number, but she doesn’t pick up.

Blood rushes in my ears as I try to comprehend, make sense of the situation.

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