Above me, clouds are rolling in, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. The temperature has dropped at least a dozen degrees since this afternoon, and I’m starting to shiver in my dress.
7:15. I call again. Voicemail.
A cold drop of water hits my bare shoulder. Then another. I look up at the sky as the first fat raindrops begin to fall, and I wonder where the hell Bastian Hale could possibly be.
My thumb hovers over his contact, but I don’t call again. Three times feels desperate enough.
Instead, I stand there like an i***t in my expensive dress and my borrowed makeup, watching the street for a Range Rover that isn’t coming. Maybe he got held up at the office. Maybe there’s traffic. Maybe his phone died.
No. I’m not going there.
But my brain goes there anyway, because that’s what b
