Page 101 of Serving the Maestro

“That’s her story,” Cam argued.

“Yeah, and it would be really stupid of her to lie when he’s there,” I snapped, although, suddenly, I was a little uneasy. Had I jumped the gun?

My phone clicked again. Trent. I rejected the call.

No, I told myself. I’d made the right call, protected myself, my baby. I’d been an idiot thinking I could have the guy and the baby, but I was over that now.

“Look, Trent might call,” I told her. “Don’t tell him anything, okay? I’ll talk to him once I’m home and...I’ll talk to him.”

End things.

“Are you going to give him a chance to tell his side of the story?”

“There’s no side,” I said shortly. “His bohemian lifestyle is not compatible with me. I’m going to be a mother, for fuck’s sake. It’s just not going to work out. Don’t tell him where I am. I gotta go.”

I hurriedly ended the call before she could press me again.

Exhaustion weighed on me, and misery was another weight. Staring at the seconds ticking by on the clock on the far wall, I willed them to go faster.

I wanted to be home, in my bed, curled up so I could cry my heart out. Once I did that, I could focus on the business of getting over Trent—and getting on with my life, me...and my baby.

THIRTY-SEVEN

TRENT

I woke with a pounding headache, a full bladder, and a taste in my mouth that was bad enough to classify as toxic waste.

As I sat up on the couch, I looked around, my brain too muddled to make sense of my sleeping arrangements. But then the fog cleared, and I groaned. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table, next to a phone I’d come close to smashing the night before.

I was still in the shirt and trousers I’d been wearing when I’d finally crashed. Between the hangover headache, the toxic waste dump that was my mouth, and the wrinkled clothes, I felt like shit, and the day was barely starting.

At the very least, I needed to get some water in me and some painkillers for the head, then brush my teeth so I wouldn’t send Jazz into hiding just from the stench of my breath.

After I took care of those basics, the two of us were going to have a talk because I wasn’t letting whatever shit Avery had fed her come between us.

I loved Jazz.

I loved her and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

Despite the headache, hangover and even my lingering anger toward Avery, I found myself smiling.

I loved Jazz.

And we were going to make this work.

I knew it in my gut.

* * *

Five minutes later, I had to admit my gut and I were both complete idiots.

“She’s gone,” I whispered to the empty room in front of me.

I’d walked through the bedroom and checked the ensuite bathroom—twice—as if I’d somehow find her hiding in the towel closet or the tub on the second trip. Then I went through the house, calling her name as panic built inside me, chased by the burgeoning realization that Jazz was gone.

She’d left.

She hadn’t tried to have it out with me, asked my side of things—she’d just left.

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