Lucky Number Eleven

Chapter 22

Layla

Squinting at the brightness of the sun, I yawn and then rub my eyes to try to wake up. My face feels puffy and I pause, remembering Branch getting inside somehow last night.

The softness of his touch, the tenderness in his arms as he held me against his sturdy chest, is so fresh in my mind. He didn't have to do that . . . but he did.

After a quick scan of my room, the only thing I see is that I'm alone and the only thing I hear is the outright pounding of my heart.

It almost feels like I dreamed it, like I needed comfort so much I made it up in my mind, but I smell his cologne on my hands and I know he was here.

Maybe he still is.

Yanking back the blankets, I climb out and head to the window. His car is parked next to mine, lined up in a row like it's supposed to be there.

"Fuck," I mutter, not sure how I feel about that or what it means or where he is or what that means. "Why does this have to be so complicated?"

Switching from my long nightshirt into a cute and easy denim romper, I race to the bathroom and wash up and get my hair into some semblance of tidiness.

I peek into the room he stayed in before and it's undisturbed. Door to door, I glance into each bedroom, bathroom, and even closet to find them all empty of life.

The energy coursing through my veins has my head buzzing. I sweep the living room as I go by but it's empty. So is the kitchen. There are no traces of Branch in the entire house.

The front door is unlocked when I try the handle and I tug it open. Stepping onto the patio, I freeze in my tracks.

My heart pulls in my chest, a smile breaking across my cheeks as I spy him.

Branch is sitting on a chaise lounge up against the house, an Illinois Legends hat sitting over his face. His big, bulky arms are folded across his chest and one sneaker-clad foot is crossed over the other.

I want to pretend he stayed for me and that he didn't just sit down and pass out from the stress of the last couple of days plus the trip up here. But dashed hopes are a hateful thing that I try to avoid if I can and how do I have any grounds to hope he cares at all about me? It will be easier if he doesn't anyway.

Even so, I can't deny the relief that he didn't just walk away last night like he could've so easily done and that he did even more by coming into my room and just being present. That means a lot. If I'm going to roast him for all of his mistakes, I need to give him a little teeny-tiny bit of credit for the good moves too.

Scooting his legs over to make room for my bottom, I take him in one last time before I lift his hat off his face. He makes a sour grimace, groaning as the morning sun shines in his eyes. Once he gets them open enough to see me, he's awake.

"Good morning," I say, each word calculated.

"Good morning." His voice is gravelly, rougher than I've ever heard it. He clears his throat. "You mad?"

"At you?"

"Of course at me."

His face tells the tale of a long, hard night. I know the look. I wear it often these days too. The judgmental glare, the lines of anger that have been around his mouth are gone, and in their place is an aura of concern.

"What happened to your face? For real?" I ask, reaching out and touching the corner of his eye.

He flinches. "It doesn't matter."