Page 60 of Along Comes Trouble

COLTON

“T essa?”

I reach over to her side of the bed and find it empty. When I roll over, the entire world does a barrel roll. I clutch my head while I wait for the room to catch up. “Tessa ?”

Mario leaps onto the bed and curls against me, but I don’t sense any other movement in the bedroom. I push into a sitting position and look down at my feet. Why the fuck am I wearing one shoe? I can’t imagine Tessa letting me fall asleep wearing only one shoe. Panic surges through me, followed closely by a wave of nausea too strong to ignore. The only thought in my head is something’s wrong as I propel myself off my bed and into the bathroom just in time to heave the contents of my stomach into the toilet .

When Tessa doesn’t rush into the bathroom to help, anxiety churns in my gut. I heave again. Nerves and nausea make terrible dance partners .

Something’s wrong .

Any other day, Tessa would be in here, glass of water in hand, pressing a cool compress to my forehead. I try to tell myself she’s out getting us breakfast, but my gut refuses to buy the story .

Something’s wrong .

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Tessa ?”

Mario wanders into the bathroom and bumps my shin with his head, purring as he rubs his little body against mine. Using the cabinet for support, I pull myself off the ground, wash my hands and rinse my mouth. The man staring back at me through the mirror is a tragedy. Pale skin. Swollen lips. Bloodshot eyes. Hair standing out from his head. Still wearing last night’s clothes .

“Get it together, Carmichael.” I lean in close to my reflection and widen my eyes. What could have happened to her? I splash more water on my face and then straighten before heading into the living room. The blanket I keep on the back of the couch is balled up on the cushions. It looks like Tessa slept here last night .

But why ?

Was I rolling around like a crazy person? Is that why she slept on the couch? But that doesn’t explain why I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes. I slip off the one shoe. Panic and confusion throb through me .

Where is she ?

I peek through the blinds. It’s another gray day, but the meager amount of daylight filtering through the clouds is an icepick to my brain. I squint at my truck, alone in the driveway. Tessa’s not here. I swipe up my phone and look for a text explaining where she is .

Nothing.

I scour the kitchen counter, the dining table, the coffee table, because surely she left a note .

Nothing.

I fumble around the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee while I call her. Once. Twice. A third time .

“Tessa,” I say after the third call goes to voicemail. “Where are you? You’re scaring me. Call me. Or text me. Just let me know you’re okay .”

I hang up and pull the carafe out of its spot on the coffee pot and let coffee drip straight into my travel mug. I down the searing liquid, cursing when it scalds my tongue, and then get dressed. Apprehension rises in my belly, pulsing against my hangover, and the caffeine twists in my stomach. With Tessa missing, I don’t have time to be sick. I pop the cap off some ibuprofen, pour two into my hand, and wash them down with more hot coffee before grabbing a bottle of water and climbing into my car. I’ll find Tessa, if I have to cover every single inch of Brookside to do it .

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