Page 12 of Found By You

And I begged for the opportunity to open a yoga studio at their local fitness center. They gave it to me on the condition it was a short-term lease to prove I’d be a welcome addition to their business. Who knows what they’ll say now if I can’t meet the deadline…

Have I mentioned I’m on the unlucky streak of a lifetime?

I jump, my phone startling me with a text.

Duke: Hey, just checking in.

I smile.

Me: All good here. Did you make it home okay?

Duke: Yeah.

Duke: It’s getting pretty nasty out. If you lose power or think you need to head anywhere, let me know, and I’ll come get you.

Me: Do you offer this kind of service to all your customers?

Duke: Only you.

I bite my lip, snuggling down as I prepare to send off another message when—

Duke: Let me know if you need anything. Night.

I frown. I shouldn’t be disappointed, I have no reason to be, and yet…I am. With another heavy sigh, I plug my phone in and turn off the TV to curl up in the hopes I’ll be able to get some much-needed sleep without the image of a certain bossy mechanic in mind.

Between my shivering, the stiff bed, and the rattling heater—it’s a wonder I was able to get two hours of sleep before two men started banging on my door at 7:00 AM sharp. They’re supposed to be fixing the heater—or so they claim—but I haven’t seen them do much of anything besides argue about what’s wrong with the dang thing.

It’s now after nine, and I’m curled up on the ice-cold linoleum floor of the bathroom, praying for my stomach to settle long enough so I can get dressed and walk to the diner Duke mentioned yesterday. Unfortunately, it’s not looking good.

I clutch the bowl of the toilet as morning sickness takes control of my body for the fifth time. Starting the day off right, it seems. Ugh.

“Hey—”

“What’s up—”

“Where is—”

Broken bits of conversation filter through the thin walls, and from the sounds of it, the two repairmen have called for reinforcements. How many men does it take to fix a motel-grade heater?

I snort.

One of the voices gets louder and almost…familiar? I strain my ears to listen.

“Maci?” A heavy fist bangs on the door, shaking the frame. I jolt. “Maci, it’s me, Duke. Open up.”

What’s he doing here? Oh, no. Did something happen to my car? I knew we shouldn’t have left it unlocked and vulnerable like he said.

I carefully scoot toward the door and reach up. The door swings inward, and Duke’s gaze scans the tiny bathroom faster than I can blink before it settles on me at his feet. I can only imagine how pitiful I appear in my current state: hair tossed up on top of my head, zero makeup to cover the massive bags under my eyes I’m surely sporting, and pale—I bet I’m as pale as printer paper—with the stiff, ugly motel comforter wrapped loosely around me.

Yup. Lookin’ like a solid twenty bucks right about now.

“Morning,” I say, paining a smile.

His heavy brow furrows into deep concern as he crouches, assessing me. “What the hell are you doing on the floor?” he asks, the rough back of his hand coming to rest on my forehead as if I’m a sick child. “You don’t look so good. Did you throw up again?”

I huff out a laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“We tried to tell her to leave,” one of the repairmen shouts, speaking out of turn. Doesn’t he know this is an A and B conversation?

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