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He doesn’t. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure.” I leave the room before I embarrass myself further and lock my bedroom door behind me. Pathetically, I pad back across the room and unlock the door, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he will come through it.
Chapter ninety-three
HARDIN
Fuck.
Fuck.
I have been containing my anger, for the most part at least, all week. It’s becoming harder and harder to do so when Zed keeps creeping his way into my head, and it’s driving me fucking mad. I know I’m batshit crazy for obsessing over this, and I have no doubt Tessa would agree if I told her why I’m so wound up. It’s not only Zed, it’s Max and his mocking tone with Tessa, his whore and her gawking at me, Kimberly challenging me when I told Tessa to go upstairs—it’s all one big fucking annoyance, and my control is slipping. I can feel my nerves being tightened to the brink of snapping, and the only way to relax them is to punch something or bury myself into Tessa and forget about everything; but I can’t even fucking do that. I should be sinking myself inside of her right now, over and over until the goddamned sun comes up, to make up for the last week of hell without her touch.
Leave it to me to fuck this night up. I’m sure she’s not surprised, though. It’s what I do without fail, every time.
I lie down on the bed and stare back and forth between the ceiling and the clock. Eventually it’s two in the morning. The annoying voices from the living room halted over an hour ago, and I was glad to hear the sounds of fawning goodbyes and then Vance and Kim’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
From across the hall, I feel it. I feel the pull, the fucking magnetic charge, drawing me to Tessa and begging me to be at her side. Ignoring the overwhelming electricity, I climb out of the bed and change into the clean black shorts that Tessa has folded and placed on the dresser. I know Vance has a gym in this massive house somewhere. I need to find it before I lose what’s left of my fucking mind.
Chapter ninety-four
TESSA
I can’t sleep. I’ve tried to close my eyes and block out the world, leave the chaos and stress of the mess that is my love life, but I can’t. It’s impossible. It’s impossible to fight the irresistible power that draws me to Hardin’s room, that begs me to be near him. He’s being so distant, and I have to know why. I have to know if he’s behaving this way because of something I did, or because of something I didn’t do. I have to know that it had nothing to do with Sasha and her tiny gold dress, or Hardin losing interest in me.
I have to know.
Hesitantly, I climb out of the bed and tug on the small cord to bring the lamp to life. I pull the thin band from around my wrist and gather my hair into my hands, pulling it into a ponytail. As quietly as possible, I tiptoe across the hall and slowly turn the handle on the guest room door. It opens with a low creak, and I’m surprised to find the lamp on and the bed empty. A pile of black sheets and blankets are pushed against the edge of the bed, but Hardin isn’t in the room.
My heart sinks at the thought that he’s left Seattle and gone back home—to his home. I know things were awkward between us, but we should be able to talk about whatever it happens to be that is weighing on Hardin’s mind. Scanning the room, I’m relieved to see his bag still on the floor, the piles of clean and folded clothes knocked over, but at least still there.
I’ve loved seeing the changes in Hardin since his arrival only hours ago. He’s been sweeter, calmer, and he actually apologized to me without me having to pull the words from him. Regardless of the fact that he’s being cold and distant right now, I can’t ignore the changes that a week apart seems to have made and the positive impact that the distance between us has had on him.
I quietly pad down the hallway in search of him. The house is dark, the only light coming from small night-lights lined along the floor of the halls. The bathrooms, living room, and kitchen are empty, and I don’t hear a single noise coming from upstairs. He has to be upstairs, though . . . maybe he’s in the library?
I keep my fingers crossed that I don’t wake anyone during my search, and just as I close the door to the dark and empty library, I see a thin line of light creeping from the door at the end of the long corridor. During my brief stay here, I haven’t made it to this part of the house, though I think Kimberly had vaguely indicated that this is where the theater and the gym are. Apparently, Christian spends hours in the gym.
The door is unlocked, and I push it open with ease. I feel a momentary spark of worry as I entertain the idea that it’s Christian, not Hardin, who’s in the room. That would be incredibly awkward, and I pray it isn’t the case.
All four walls of the room are mirrored from floor to ceiling and lined with large, intimidating machines, a treadmill being the only recognizable one. Weights and more weights cover the far wall, and most of the floor is padded. My eyes move to the mirrored walls, and my insides liquefy at the sight of them. Hardin—four Hardins, actually—are reflected in the mirrors. He’s shirtless, and his movements are aggressively quick. His hands are wrapped in the same black tape that I’ve seen on Christian’s each day this week.
Hardin’s back is to me, his hard muscles straining under pale skin as he lifts his foot to kick the large black bag hanging from the ceiling. His fist strikes out next; a loud thud follows his movement, and he repeats it with the other fist. I watch as he continues to punch and kick the bag; he looks so angry, and hot, and sweaty, and I can barely think straight as I watch him.