Page 98 of Cadence
Swallowing the rest of what I want to say, because this isn’t Beau’s fault, I turn and head toward my room. No dramatic storm-off, no slammed doors. Just footsteps fading into the carpet.
Away from him.
Away from her.
Away from whatever the hell I thought this could have been.
Chapter Forty-Two
Paige
Empty.
The other side of the bed is fucking empty.
The bathroom is empty.
The entire hotel room is empty.
For a second, ice starts to penetrate my veins, nasty thoughts whispering inside my head. I huff a self-deprecating laugh, shaking them away. Maddox wouldn’t do whatever my imagination is trying to construct. He would have disappeared to get coffee or something, slipping out early to avoid being seen.
Him leaving is…strategic. A way to stop Beau throwing sly looks over breakfast or Eli inundating us with questions.
Except Maddox doesn’t do strategic when it comes to feelings.
He does walls, distance.
I roll onto my side and inhale deeply. He’s still here, faint, but enough to be embedded into the pillow. That mix of cedar, sweat, and whatever addictive scent clings to his skin. It’s soaked into the pillowcase and the twisted sheets around me.
Like a lovesick fool, I run my hand across it, my fingertips brushing against a folded piece of paper lying on top. I freeze, pulse spiking as I reach for it, already knowing what it is.
Sitting up slowly, the sheet pools around my waist, the morning chill skimming across my skin as I stare at the hotel emblem on the bottom of the page, at his handwriting bleeding through from the other side, uneven and rushed. My hand shakes as I flip it open, my stomach bottoming out when I read his words.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.
That’s it.
One fucking line.
Nothing more.
I read it twice, then a third time, as if more words might magically appear and explain what the hell this means. But they don’t; instead, they detonate quietly, the blast delayed, but inevitable.
My heart is in my throat as I try to convince myself it doesn’t mean what I already know it does. That the faint imprint of his body and the cold sheets beside me don’t scream that he didn’t just fuck me and vanish like I was a one-night stand with good timing.
He could’ve said something, could’ve looked me in the eye and told me. I would’ve understood, respected it even. Business and pleasure don’t mix. Not when we’re this close to getting everything we’ve worked for.
But instead, he slipped out like a ghost and left a single sentence behind.
My entire body aches in that perfect, delicious way that’s quickly turning bitter, the proof that last night actually happened, that we were something more for a few breathless hours. And now, instead of basking in the afterglow of the best sex of my life, I’m staring at five fucking words like they’re a goddamn goodbye.
Because they are.
I scrub both hands through my tangled hair, ignoring the tight, burning pressure behind my ribs. I will not cry. Not over him.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I stand, wobbly and sore, and reach for my discarded shirt. Tugging it over my head, I stalk toward the bathroom, grimacing as I look in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.
Rumpled, flushed, well and truly fucked.
