Two weeks later
Jo turned over in bed, feeling like something wasn’t quite right. Even in the hazy half-world between sleep and wakefulness, she already knew perfectly well what was wrong. She reached out in the darkness, knowing what she’d find. Or not find.
Sure enough, her fingers touched empty air, empty mattress, empty pillow. Silver wasn’t there. Again.
She knew where she’d find him and what he’d be doing.
Jo swung her legs off the bed, padded across Silver’s bedroom in her panties and one of Silver’s huge t-shirts, opened the door. She headed down the hallway on silent feet and paused in the doorway of the living room.
There he was, doing what he so often did at 3 a.m.: standing bare-chested in his jeans, staring out the window at the quiet, empty street and drinking whiskey.
