Page 27 of When I Had You

Maybe she went out for coffee.

Maybe she grabbed some breakfast for us.

No shoes.

No bag.

No beaded dress.

Unless she left my shirt in the bathroom, that’s also gone.

I scrub my hand over my face and then look through the peephole. Shit. This can’t be good. Popping the locks, I open the door. “Noah—”

He barges in.

“Come on in,” I add, moving out of his way since he seems to be on a mission.

He stops just inside the living room and turns back, crossing his arms over his chest. “What the fuck are you doing?” As if he can’t stand still, he lowers his arms, his phone in one hand and the other fisting at his side. He puts more distance between us when I come closer.

What little control he appears to have over his anger is slipping. “What the fuck, Cash?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Morning . . . oh shit. “What time is it?”

He glares at me. “My sister aside—”

“Your sister aside?” I ask, searching for my phone. It clicks just before I enter the bedroom. Fuck. He knows. “I can explain, but I need—”

“I don’t care what you fucking need. Do you know the damage you’ve done?”

Holding up my hand, I say, “Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and then you can yell all you want, but I need—”

“This isn’t about me, Cash. This is about the team, the Westcott name, the—”

“It has to wait five minutes.” I dash into the bedroom and find my phone on the dresser right next to the charger, but it’s not plugged in, and it’s dead. “Fuck!”

“I tried to call,” he says, standing in the doorway.

I’m trying not to lose my shit, but I want to slam the phone against the wall. I plug it in instead. “What time is it?”

He huffs but checks his phone. “9:15.”

My stomach twists into knots, waiting for the screen to tell me it has enough power to make the call. Maybe Noah understands there’s something more pressing because he stands there, not making a sound.

Green on the screen has me scrambling to call the number. The phone rings, so I put it on speakerphone to keep charging.

“What’s going on, Cash?” Noah asks as if we’re friends again.

My heart thunders in my chest, making me wish I could pace the floor. “I need to talk to my son.” It rings two more times. “Please pick up. Please pick up.” When the phone answers, the words race from my mouth, “I overslept. Can I—”

“Leave a message after the beep.” Beeeeeep . . .

If this phone weren’t the only connection I have to my son when I’m traveling, I’d crush it. I hang up and drop onto the end of the mattress, sinking forward and covering my face with my hands.

“Talk to me,” Noah says, his tone leaning toward concern now.

I can’t make myself sit straight as disappointment races through me. I look up, covering the rest of the distance. “I was supposed to talk to my son at eight this morning. She only gave me that one chance to reach him.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

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