Chapter 9

“Emerson Anne, you sit back down and finish your breakfast.”

Em rolled her eyes at her grandmother’s order. “Gran. I know you want to take care of me, but I already agreed to stay here last night instead of going to my place. I’ve had as much breakfast as I can without puking it up when I get to the practice courts.”

“Emmy, don’t you sass me. You’re skin and bones, little girl.” Gran pinched Em’s arm in demonstration. “You need to get a good meal before you go out there and run around all day.”

She bit back a laugh. She loved her grandma, and it’d felt good to sleep in her old room last night, but she always seemed to forget that Em was twenty-seven, not seven. Her two days post-Rob in New York had flown by. He’d texted her within twelve hours of leaving her hotel room, asking about her photoshoot and meetings, one of which had been with his sister. She wavered between telling him the truth and keeping things light and easy—friendly. The truth was, her body was sore from all the sex, and the stupid photoshoot only made it worse, posing her in awkward positions for “action” shots. But telling him that would only stoke his already massive ego and give him the wrong idea. So she gave him the light, easy answer, and they’d texted back and forth a bit. He’d even told her goodnight with a little kiss emoji.

The next night, he’d called, even though he’d been busy. She’d been worried that it was a booty call, but instead he’d asked about her day, about how her meetings went—off the record. He’d offered advice on how to maneuver around one of the sponsors’ scrutiny, and they’d ended up watching part of a movie together while they talked, To Kill A Mockingbird, one of her Papa Vic’s favorites. He’d called last night too. She’d been busy with her grandma’s fussing, but she’d texted him. There was a text waiting for her this morning.

Morning beautiful. Hope you have a good practice today. Don’t forget to work on that second serve ;)

She’d sent him an emoji with its tongue sticking out in reply.

“Gran, I love you, but you can’t keep me here all day.” She stood up and went to kiss her grandma’s weathered cheek. It still felt weird not to have Papa Vic there, his eyes twinkling as he silently laughed at Gran’s fussing. “I’ve eaten more than enough, and Zoe will make sure I eat a good lunch. She loves to fuss as much as you do.”

“Fine. Go practice,” Gran said with a humph. “Just be careful, Squeaker. Those vultures are still lurking around, trying to get a picture of you.”

She sighed, her heart warming a little at the childhood nickname. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

By the time she was through the first two hours with Zoe, Emerson was wishing she’d stayed at her grandparents’ house. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No.” Zoe smirked. “It’s not my fault that you didn’t practice while you were in New York.”

“It’s not my fault either,” Emerson groused. “Blame Amir. He scheduled a million things for me to do. I barely had time to eat a real meal, let alone train.”

“We’ll have to have a word with him about that. You can’t afford so many distractions. If you’re going to win a slam this year, we need one hundred percent of your focus on the courts. Come on, give me another set of crunches.”

Emerson pounded the exercise mat beneath her in frustration but resumed her work out. Between curling her body toward her knees, she said, “It’s not like…I like this…but I had to do damage control…to keep my sponsors…which means…doing what Amir says.”

She didn’t mention that she may or may not have walked into another massive distraction in New York.

Not that she would let Rob be a distraction. When she needed to focus on her game, she’d be a laser. But she had to admit she was enjoying his first overtures at friendship or whatever was going on between them, even if her guard was still up. But it was going to be more of a challenge than she’d thought to keep things platonic. There’d been some seriously hot, wet dreams over the last few nights—the one last night felt really wrong considering she was in her childhood bed.

“Fine. But Amir and your sponsors need to remember that they’ll make more money with that Grand Slam under your belt than they’ll make by pulling you away all the time.” Zoe handed Em her water bottle, which she gratefully gulped. “Let’s grab some lunch, and then we’ll hit the courts and work on that second serve.”

By the time Em drove her Honda Civic up to her reserved parking spot in front of her town house, her body screamed for a long, hot bath, a big glass of ice water, and the comfy embrace of her couch. But first, she had to check her mail, water her plants, and start a massive load or seven of laundry.

Stopping at her box, she pulled out the stacks of mail her house sitter hadn’t grabbed while she was in New York and made her way in. The cleaning team had been through yesterday, so there wasn’t a layer of dust to worry about. She dragged her bags in from the car and sorted through the laundry before turning her attention to the piles of mail.

“Squeaker? You home?”

“No, O, my car drove itself and parked outside,” she called to her brother.

Owen appeared, his black hair cropped closer to his head than the last time she’d seen him.

“Sarcasm. Charming. And here I thought you missed me.” He opened her fridge, pulled out one of the lemon waters she loved, and took a big swig of it.

“Remind me again why I gave you a key.” She made a face. “I swear it wasn’t so you could pick on me here as well as at Gran’s house and steal my stuff.”

“Because I’m your favorite brother, and I love you. Did you just get home?”

She went back to sorting through the mail. “Yeah. Zo kept me at practice longer today since I missed time while I was in New York.”

“Bummer. You’d think Amir would have scheduled some practice time into your schedule.” He hopped up to sit on the counter beside her. “Any good mail?”

“Not all of us get nudie magazines in the mail,” she said absently, scanning the return labels of each envelope as she piled the bills in one stack, the junk in another, and the miscellaneous magazines and letters in a third.

He snorted. “Please. I haven’t gotten one of those in years. It’s all about the Internet, now.”

“God, O. You are such a guy.”

Emerson’s eyes flitted over an envelope. The handwriting was the same as she’d seen on two other envelopes she’d tossed in the miscellaneous pile. Blocky, shaky writing, slightly crumpled around the edges. And no postmark…

Frowning, she picked up the letter opener and carefully slit the top of the first one she’d placed in the pile. Fan mail was all supposed to go to Amir’s office or her PO box. No one except her family and friends had her home address, and she’d never done any sort of interview here.

You bitch. How dare you betray Kole like that? You deserve to be broken for being such a slut.

Each letter was carefully cut out of a picture of her or Kole. Then another picture of her, one of the ones from the leak, was carefully pasted at the bottom with Xs drawn over her eyes.

“Emmy? You okay?”

Owen’s words cut through her stupor long enough for her to shake her head. She quickly opened the next letter, dropping the first as she went.

Slut. Whore. Did you accept payment when you spread for those other men? Or do you do it because you can’t keep your legs closed?

The next one had her whole hand trembling, bile rising in her throat. Her breath came in short, shallow pants.

Cunt. If you don’t apologize to Kole and admit what a fucking bitch you are, you’ll be sorry!

“What the hell? Squeaker, where did these come from?” Owen snatched the letters from her.

She took a step back, rubbing her chest as if it’d make breathing easier. “I don’t know. I…they are in the mail.”

“Did you bring it in or did the house sitter?” he demanded, pulling out his phone.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes to shut out some of the distractions. “I don’t know. I think the first ones must have been brought in by the house sitter, but the last one was probably in the bunch I brought in. This is bad. I need to call Zoe and Amir. And Gran.”

“First you need to call the police,” he insisted.

He was right. Shit. This was a bigger mess than she thought. Police meant more reporters and stories and more of those goddamn distractions she didn’t need now.

After she made the calls, she started to pace. Her chest tightened as she moved, her breaths coming in shallower with each inhalation. “Why is this happening? Why can’t I have a moment of peace? I can’t…I don’t know how much more of this I can take, O.”

Owen, the family peace maker, who took everything in stride, pulled her into a hug. He cuddled her close, stroking her hair and rubbing her back, just as he used to when they were little and something would upset her. She vaguely remembered him holding her like this after their mom died and their dad left them behind. “Breathe, Squeaker. Slow down and breathe. You’re not doing this alone.”

She loved her brother more than life. He’d been by her side for everything, from their mom’s death to their first time playing tennis to going pro. He supported her and had her back as much as their grandparents did. But a part of her she always held back, always worrying that there might be too much of their dad in him. She couldn’t tell him about Rob, after London or last week, and she didn’t know that he could ever understand what was happening to her now.

“Tell that to my subconscious. Intellectually, I know you’re here and that everyone has my back, but I’m the only one being attacked. It’s getting real old, real fast,” she said.

But she let her brother hold her and fuss over her. He even made her some of her favorite tea. By the time Amir, Zoe, and a friend of Amir’s from the local police department showed up, Em had downgraded from scared out of her mind to pissed off.

“You were right to call me, Mr. al-Tammar. Given everything that’s happened to Ms. Grace over the last few weeks, I think we can safely say the two incidents are connected.” Detective Turner Combs slipped the three letters and their envelopes into a protective sleeve of plastic he’d brought with him.

“Do you think you can find who sent the letters?” Zoe asked, her arm protectively around Em’s shoulders. Emmy appreciated the support, but she hated that she once again needed it.

Combs frowned. “Maybe. It’ll depend on a lot of factors. We’ll take Owen and Emerson’s prints so that we can differentiate theirs from the ones left by the letter writer. If he left any prints or DNA, we can run them through the system, but it’s a crap shoot if we’ll find any matches.”

“Amir, have you had any luck figuring out who released those pictures?” Owen asked, leaning over the back of the couch near Em.

“Nothing definite, but the PI we hired did confirm that it wasn’t Naumov. Kole had some cyber guys check his computer, and some of his accounts were hacked.”

Zoe snorted. “And you trust his word?”

“I trust the word of the guys he hired, and so does my PI.” Amir glanced at Combs. “You don’t think Naumov is behind the letters, do you?”

Emerson’s stomach clenched, and her head throbbed with the weight of the emotions hitting her. “No. Kole wouldn’t do this. Besides, the letters were written about him. The…the person directed their outrage at me because of him, yes, but I don’t think he’d do this. The first one was in a stack of mail from before the Australian Open was over, and Kole left Melbourne the same day as I did.”

“Emerson is right. While this person, whoever he or she is, is connected to Mr. Naumov, I don’t think he’s directly involved. It’s more like they’re a super fan who’s taken a dangerous turn,” Combs said.

“What do we do now?” Amir asked. “Wait for this nutcase to show himself?”

Combs stood up, taking the letters with him. “I’d suggest making sure Ms. Grace doesn’t go anywhere alone, and forward all of her mail to your office, Mr. al-Tammar.”

“What good would that do?” Emerson asked. Her head ached more than her body, which was saying something, and she wanted to curl up in a ball and forget all this had ever happened. “Whoever it is, they didn’t send the letter through the regular mail. There was no postmark.”

“I’ll have one of my guys check your mailbox every few days to see if our friend decides to drop another letter in it, but given that it’s a locked box, I’m guessing he found some way to sneak it in with the mail that’s already been sorted. I’m going to talk to the guys at the local post office, see if they’ve noticed anyone suspicious hanging around. Mr. Grace, you and your grandmother should be on the lookout too. If any letters show up at your residences, you call me right away.”

“Of course.” Owen stood and showed the detective to the door.

Emerson buried her face in her hands. This couldn’t be happening. It was all a bad dream, and she’d wake up in the morning to another super sexy dream about Rob.

Amir frowned and started clicking around on his phone.

“What are you doing?” Zoe asked.

“I’m looking into private security. It’ll cost a pretty penny, but at least Emmy will be safe.”

The ferocity in his voice surprised Emerson. Amir had been her agent since she went pro at nineteen, but he’d always been a cross between a pit bull and an annoying but lovable uncle. The bald man’s main focus was usually on earning the money that kept him in expensive suits and ties.

Emerson leaned forward and placed her hand over his phone. “That’s really sweet of you, Amir, but I don’t need private security.”

“The hell you don’t,” Owen said, returning to the comfortable living room. The soft yellows, purples, and whites had always put her at ease, but today nothing seemed to work.

“You’ve got a crazy person sending you threatening letters. To any sane person, that’s a good sign you need security.”

“Before you hulk out on me, think about this, O.” She tugged her brother to sit beside her, his big frame eating up twice the space as hers did. “We have no clue where this person is or who they are. We don’t even know if they’re serious. It could be some weird prank or something.”

Zoe gave her a look. “Prank? Those letters did not sound like a prank, Emmy.”

“For once, I gotta agree with Zoe. That psycho took the time to cut letters out of your face. That’s a lot of effort for a prank,” Amir said.

“Maybe. But until the cops think it’s something serious, then I think we need to hold off on wasting money on security.” Some of her friends, like Dera, had private security with them whenever they were traveling, but she’d worked hard to avoid it. She didn’t like the thought of having two or three beefy, muscled guys following her around.

“It’s not like I’m ever alone that much. I spend most of my days training with Zoe and the team, then I come home where I have a really good security system and an overprotective brother right next door.”

The reason she’d bought her townhouse in the first place was because Owen was looking at one next door. The few years they’d both been away at college felt so odd after being so close all their lives, even though they’d seen each other at tournaments. Having him next door was comforting. They both had different schedules and went to different tournaments, but it was still nice to know that he was a few dozen yards away when she needed him.

“Fine,” Owen said. “No private security for now. But you promise me that you’ll stay safe. If you need to go grocery shopping, take me or Zoe or one of your team members with you. Only go to and from the training facility and the Grands’ on your own.”

Her hackles flared. Bossy Owen never failed to tick her off, even when his intentions were good. “I’ll be careful, O. I’ve got too much to look forward to this year to do anything stupid.”

The other three started to talk about possible culprits, but Em’s mind drifted. Doing something stupid was exactly what she was doing, by agreeing to stay in contact with Rob. It was even more stupid now that she had a nut job sending her letters about what a slut she was. If he got wind of her having one-night stands in hotel rooms, it would probably only make matters worse.

For a moment, she thought about calling Rob. Hearing his voice would calm her down better than anything, but she couldn’t do that. They might be “friends” now, but she couldn’t tell him about this. Not with his job. Besides, they were the sort of friends who had short, pleasant conversations and casual text message exchanges. Telling him she had a stalker was a bad idea on so many different levels.

****

Rob took a deep breath of the warm California air. It was a nice change from the frigid New York winter he’d left behind. He watched his sister move across the court, light as the leaves blowing off the nearby trees, her long tail of dark blond hair dancing in the wind.

The rhythmic thwack of the racket connecting with the bright green ball took him back to a better time, an easier time. A time when he didn’t have a bum shoulder and still had the job he was born for. That sound had been a lullaby for him as a little kid and a battle cry from the time he was old enough to swing a racket. He’d missed that sound, echoing across these same courts, since the day he woke up from his surgery.

His hands itched to pick up a racket again. His legs ached with the need to run across the court to meet his sister’s volley.

How many hours had they played here? Despite the seven-year age difference, he and Maren had always been close. He’d taught her how to play when he went to visit her at their grandparents’ house in Sweden on a break from the tennis academy. She’d taken to it like a duck to water, and they’d shared that love of the game just like they shared the solidarity of being mostly ignored by their parents. Sometimes he missed the days when he used to coach her. He’d gotten such a kick out of showing her how to grip the racket in her tiny hands and how to serve.

“Watch that backhand, short stack,” he called out as the ball thrower sent a cross body shot at her.

Maren missed the shot and turned to fix him with a death glare that had been much cuter when she was five. “I would have been fine if someone wasn’t backseat swinging.”

“Please. You were a mile off.” He stood up and moved down the stairs to the court. “Besides, you promised me lunch, and it’s almost one thirty.”

His sister winced. “Sorry. I got in the zone and—”

“Lost track of time, yeah, I know.” He picked up one of the dead balls from the edge of the court and tossed it from hand to hand. “Go get cleaned up.”

By the time they got to the cute beachside restaurant they both loved, it was after two.

“At least we missed the lunch rush and got a patio table,” Maren said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

“True. I missed this place more than anything.” Rob thumbed through the menu, even though he knew exactly what he’d get.

Laughing, she took a sip of her water. “What, no ocean views in NYC?”

“River views? Sure. Harbor views too. But nothing like this. I miss the sandy beaches and the warm weather. I’ve bought more sweaters in the last two months than I have in the last ten years combined.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to move to New York, big brother. I told you it was a stupid plan.” She grinned at the waiter. “I’ll have the grilled shrimp with the squash and zucchini chips and a side salad.”

“And I’ll have the fish tacos with the avocado crema and extra cilantro.” Rob handed the menu over and accepted the soda the waiter handed him in exchange. “I like the job well enough, Mare. Just not the location.”

“Do you really like the job? I saw your face earlier. You miss being out on the court.” She fiddled with the end of her ponytail, a habit left over from childhood. Their mother always insisted Maren keep her hair long but pulled away from her face. She’d rebelled against a lot over the years but always kept the long hair.

“Of course I miss it. But unless my shoulder magically goes back in time to before my injury, I’m not going to be playing again anytime soon.” He kept his words light, doing his best to hide the bitterness that lingered. Saying he missed being out on the courts was like saying a fish missed water flowing over its gills. But he’d had to come to terms with his life as it was and not focus on the fact that he’d never play competitive tennis again.

She rolled her eyes, the long-suffering sister look down pat. “You didn’t answer my question, Robby.”

“Okay, Mary. Do I like my job?” He shrugged. “Some days I do and some days I don’t, like every other poor schmuck out there. Some of it’s not great. Working with Bruno sucks, but I don’t mind the rest of it.”

“You could be coaching, though. You love working with kids,” she insisted. “Mama would love to have your help with the tennis academy, especially her program with the foster kids.”

He shrugged. “Working with the parents isn’t an option. Besides, I get to tell stories about the people worth knowing about. I’m in a position to make sure that the people who deserve attention are getting attention and that people are hearing the truth about the phonies.”

The breeze from the ocean eased the lingering tension from his time at the court. He’d spoken the truth, but not all of it. Being a reporter was harder than he’d expected, especially as a junior reporter. Bruno had tried to railroad him into stories that were meaningless. More than once, the older reporter had pitched follow-up stories on Em that would directly counteract all the good Rob had done for both the network and for Em. Thankfully, Rob had managed to convince Joey to nix the ideas and focus on other stories, like Dera Calvet’s new coach or Chessa Pavlich’s mysterious absence from the press events following the Australian Open.

The stories about Em were thankfully dying down, but that didn’t mean she was far from his mind. He’d gotten into the habit of talking or texting with her every night before bed. Hearing her voice made it a little easier for him to sleep, even if it did inspire more wet dreams than he’d had since high school. Before the network sent him out here, he’d been trying to think of an excuse to go down to Florida to see her for a few days.

“As much as I hate you working for that slimy network, that was a good thing you did for Emmy Grace after those pictures came out,” Maren said, munching on some chips and salsa. “I’ve never been more proud to be your sister than I was when I saw the segment.”

Heat crept up his cheeks, and he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the salsa. “It was nothing. Really. I just…I said what I’d want someone to say if you were in that position. Not that I ever want you to be, of course, but I did what any guy with a conscience would do.”

“Well, we all appreciate it. If it weren’t for the whole conflict of interest thing, you’d be scoring with a lot of the female tennis players.” She winked. “Not that you had any issues in that area before.”

There was really only one woman he wanted to score with these days, but he sure as hell wasn’t telling his sister that. He waited until their food arrived before revisiting the topic of Em. He had to be careful, or her annoying sister radar would go off in a second. She’d always been able to tell when he was really interested in a woman.

“How is Emerson doing? The stories seem to be dying down,” he said, taking a bite of his fish tacos. The flavors burst in his mouth, the mix of sea and spices so good he almost moaned.

She finished chewing her chip before responding. “She’s all right, I guess. She seemed a bit scattered at our meeting in New York. She’s still a little depressed about everything that’s happened, but she’s been keeping busy with training. She’s dead set on winning a slam this year. But I did get the sense she wasn’t telling me everything. I’d planned to try to pry more out her, but she hung up before I got the chance.”

“I’ve heard tell she’s a woman on a mission.” He sipped his soda, mulling over his sister’s words. He’d gotten the feeling Em was holding something back too, but he’d written it off as her keeping distance between them because of their past.

“Speaking of missions, have you heard from the parents lately? Is Bobby still riding you pretty hard?” He wanted to ask more about Em, but he didn’t know if he could do it without tipping his sister off.

Her mouth tightened, and she stared out over the ocean. “Dad is Dad. He’s so focused on his legacy, you know? Thank God for Mom. She’s been keeping him distracted as best she can, but I half expect him to show up and start butting in at any second.”

He hated that his injury made life harder for his sister too. All their lives, when their dad did decide to pay attention to them, it had been to focus on Rob and his career. The next piece of the Ashton legacy. He’d done his part and added as best he could, but Bobby wanted more. He wanted a calendar Grand Slam and a record as the world number one. Since Rob couldn’t do that now, his sister was in the hot seat.

“Don’t let him bully you, Mare. I know you want to please him, but you’ve got to remember to put yourself first over whatever it is he wants.” He gave his sister’s arm a squeeze.

She laughed. “Is this a ‘do as I say not as I do’ thing? You sure as hell couldn’t stand up to Bobby. How do you expect me to?”

He swallowed hard. Damn his sister for a wicked gut shot. She was right, of course. But it didn’t sting any less. He’d let his father bully him about his life choices for most of his life. But he’d also been free for more than a year, and it felt…so fucking good not to have his father watching his every move, personally or professionally. “Learn from my mistakes, short stack. Dad’s all hot air. At the end of the day, you need to be happy. That’s all that matters.”

They finished their lunch, slipping away from the high-octane topics and into the realm of easy conversation about movies and books and current events. He’d dropped his sister back off at the courts when his phone rang.

“Joey? What’s up?” he asked, leaning back in the seat of the convertible he’d rented for the trip.

“I’ve got a story I want you to start looking into right away.” She didn’t waste time on any pleasantries. “How soon can you wrap up the Casterman story?”

He closed his eyes, letting the breeze wash over him. She already had him out here doing a story about a prodigy playing at one of the local high schools. The kid was fourteen and already playing better than some of the WTA vets. “I’ve got another interview scheduled for tomorrow night, then you’ll have all the footage to edit the piece.”

“Good. Once you wrap things up there, I want you to go to Florida.”

In the background, the echoes of Joey’s fingers flying over a keyboard provided a soundtrack to their conversation. The woman didn’t slow down for a single second. He’d yet to see her not multitasking. The hair on the back of Rob’s neck stood up. Florida was the home of a lot of tennis players, but he doubted Joey would send him to do a story about just anyone.

“If this is a story about my parents—”

She interrupted him. “No, it’s not about your parents. We wouldn’t have you do that kind of story anyway. No, this is about Emerson Grace.”

Em. Shit. Not again. He’d tried to get Joey to leave her alone, but the network just kept coming. He couldn’t contribute to the circus, not now, not when Em was finally seeing him as a friend. “I thought we decided we weren’t doing any more stories about the photo leak.”

“Bruno’s doing a follow-up piece about investigators determining that Naumov wasn’t behind the leaks,” she said distractedly. “But I want you to look into a separate story.”

This was news to him. Em hadn’t said anything about the pictures since they left each other in New York. When they talked, they kept things light and non-specific. She didn’t tell him much about her day to day life.

“Wait, if Naumov didn’t leak them, do they know who did?” he asked, his mind already turning over the different possibilities. If Kole hadn’t leaked the pictures, Em had a bigger problem than they’d originally thought.

“That’s what I want you to look into,” Joey said, “or at least part of it. I’ve heard rumors that Emerson has been receiving threatening stalker-type letters. I want you to see if it’s true and look into a connection between the stalker and the leak.”

A thousand feelings hit him faster than a ball machine, all of them more visceral than the next. Confusion came first, but fury and an inexplicable sense of betrayal followed quickly. Em hadn’t said a word about this. They’d talked for at least fifteen minutes last night when he got back to his hotel after his interview. How had she left out something like that?

“Where’d you hear these rumors? I haven’t heard anything about this.” He struggled to keep his voice neutral.

“I’ve got a source with the Miami PD that says they’ve been ordered to make more frequent patrols in the same neighborhoods as Emerson’s practice facility and her townhouse. They heard some whisperings, but they don’t know anything for sure. I want you to confirm the story so we can get an exclusive.”

He bit his tongue. He had no intention of letting Joey run a story like this if it were true, but he couldn’t pass up this chance. “Okay. I’ll finish up here and head down to Miami day after tomorrow.”

He let her rattle on a few minutes about travel arrangements before he finally got her off the phone.

Fuck. He’d thought he and Em were in a good place, but he’d been right. She was keeping something from him—a big something. He thought friends told friends about stuff like this.

Punching Em’s code name on his favorite contact’s list—Anne for the heroine of her favorite book—he listened to the phone ring through the rental’s Bluetooth.

“Hi. You’ve reached Emerson Grace. I’m either on the court or too tired to look at my phone. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

He bit back a bellow of frustration. “Em. It’s me. Just heard some interesting news about you, and I think we need to talk. Give me a call back.”

That ought to get her attention, but it didn’t. He went through his day, finished up a meeting with his camera crew, and went back to his hotel, but still nothing from Em. Not even a text message acknowledging that she’d gotten his message. Worry warred with flat-out pissed off as he ordered room service and took a stinging-hot shower. Still, no call from Em. He tried her again and got sent straight to voicemail.

Damn it. He glanced at his watch. It was only ten thirty on the east coast. She would normally be awake now, curled up in her bed while she read or watched one of the ten thousand TV shows she followed.

She was avoiding him. The walls were going back up, higher than before, and he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to talk to her, to see for himself she was really okay.

More than that, he needed to know they were okay. Losing the slimmest chance he had to finally have an answer to the what-ifs that stood between them was not an option. There was too much left unsaid, too much he wanted. If he lost her—even if it was just her friendship—it couldn’t be like this.