Alex pushed him back with one hand, the other ruffling his fur. “Where’s Mommy, Bailey?” He had to go out.
Alex yanked on his T-shirt and jeans, still disoriented, a knot already forming in his gut. He opened the bedroom door and followed Bailey downstairs.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
The sky outside was tinted gray-pink, the sun just starting to rise. When Alex opened the front door, Bailey bolted for the nearest tree.
Alex stepped onto the porch and stopped cold. Charlotte’s car was gone. A sharp curse ripped from his throat, “Shit.” He grabbed his phone and called her.
She answered on the first ring. “I’m safe. I’ll be home when I’m done.” Click. She hung up.
He stared at the phone like it had betrayed him. His temper flared, hot and fast. He felt like one of those cartoon characters with steam blasting out of his ears. He called again. Voicemail. He didn’t yell into it. Just a clipped message: “Call me.”
Then he stood there, phone still in his hand, helpless. She was gone. She’d gone without telling him. His mind raced—where, why, who with? And worse: what the hell is she walking into alone?
He didn’t move for a moment. Didn’t breathe.
Then he looked at the empty spot in the parking circle. Maybe I’ll put a tracker on the damn car when she gets back.
Bailey returned, tongue lolling as if nothing had changed. Alex followed him inside and headed to the kitchen. There was a full pot of coffee. Someone had been up. He poured a mug and leaned against the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose. Ethan’s task force started today. The day hadn’t even begun, and already it was spiraling.
Sixteen
Graham Cullen satin the back corner booth, facing the door, just like always. Charlotte saw him the moment she stepped inside the diner. He hadn’t changed so much as settled. The sharp edges had worn down. His black hair was now streaked with gray, and a salt-and-pepper beard framed his face—neatly trimmed, intentional. Still him. Just older. Like her.
He stood when he saw her.
Her pulse jumped. Fifteen years since they’d last spoken. Fifteen years of silence. She had no idea what she was supposed to say. She walked toward him, each step slower than the last.
He stepped out into the aisle and gave her a faint, crooked smile. “Well, Char. You look good.”
“So do you, Graham.”
Stilted words. Polite. Safe. Not them.
She stared at him, opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Damn it, Graham,” she said finally, her voice cracking. She opened her arms.
He didn’t hesitate. He stepped into her, wrapped his arms around her, and held on. It wasn’t a polite hug. It was something heavier. Years of history pressed between them. Regret. Gratitude. Grief. Love?
She buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled. “I handled things terribly.”
A low chuckle rumbled through him. “You sure as hell did.” But he didn’t let go.
Charlotte didn’t move. She couldn’t. There was too much between them—years they hadn’t talked, years where she’d convinced herself it was better this way. But standing there with his arms around her, she felt how wrong that had been.
Graham held her like he meant it. No hesitation. No blame in the way his hands gripped her back.
When they finally pulled apart, he searched her face like he was trying to read all the years that had passed. “Still carry everything in your eyes.”
Charlotte gave a faint, tired smile. “So do you.”
Graham motioned to the booth. “Sit. You want coffee?”
She slid into the seat. “Yeah.”
He flagged down the waitress without taking his eyes off her. They didn’t speak until the mugs were in front of them, the waitress moving off with a knowing glance.
Charlotte wrapped her hands around the cup, grounding herself. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
