Page 21 of Every Broken Piece

Chapter twenty-one

Gabe

Me: Just checking in to make sure you got home all right

Me: Hope everything’s okay

Me: Did you fall asleep in your blanket cocoon?

Me: Starting to worry

Me: Tess, please let me know you’re okay

Me: Damn it, Tess, I’m really worried. Please text that you’re okay

I ’ve sent at least twenty texts in the past twelve hours.

I tried calling, something I swore I’d never do, but that last boundary I refused to cross crumbled at two o’clock this afternoon when I still hadn’t heard from her. I dialed her number, my toe tapping in frustration when the call went straight to voicemail.

She doesn’t owe me anything. She doesn’t have to let me know she made it back from the bar last night. As she so brutally told me last week, I’m just her client. But she promised and I know Tess would never break a promise. And damn it, I need to know she’s okay.

I’m a mess. I’m a mess and I shouldn’t be but somehow in those late evening text conversations and those good mornings I’ve developed feelings for my virtual assistant who I’ve never met in person and have never had a conversation with that didn’t have to be typed out.

What the fuck.

This is insanity.

And I’ll deal with those feelings and that insanity just as soon as I hear back from her.

She’s probably hung over and sleeping it off. Maybe she went to Amelia’s after the bar and of course she wouldn’t take her work phone.

Why don’t I have her personal number? Why did I never ask for it?

Because she’s your assistant, your employee , dumbass. There’s no reason to have that information.

I run a hand through my hair and grasp the back of my neck before stomping toward my gym.

A good workout will take my mind off everything.

I just need to burn off this energy and by then she’ll have texted to tell me about the book she’s reading or maybe the cat she just adopted.

That’s it. That has to be it. She adopted a cat and lost all sense of time because she’s been playing with it all day.

But as my feet are pounding on the treadmill, images of some random guy bringing her a drugged drink run through my head like a horror movie.

Or maybe she met a guy and went home with him.

Maybe she didn’t spend the night with Amelia or adopt a cat.

But that thought is almost worse than a drugged drink.

Why don’t I know Amelia’s last name? Why did I never ask for Amelia’s last name?

I slam my palm on the emergency stop and straddle the belt as I bend over and breathe deep. My breathlessness has nothing to do with my aborted workout and everything to do with the panic rampaging through me.

This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

She’s fine.

She owes you nothing, old man. She probably forgot all about texting you because she has friends that are more important. Or she met a guy and thoughts of you are furthest from her mind.

I fucking hate that thought, but I have to be realistic. She’s thirteen years younger than me. Of course, she’ll meet a guy and have a relationship with him. She’s beautiful, both inside and out. No guy can pass that up.

And yet I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.