Page 13 of Curvy Desire's Second Shot

I stood from the couch and walked toward her, keeping my tone calm but firm. “You’re not doing nothing. You’re staying alive. That’s more than enough right now.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she turned to face me, her frustration giving way to something softer—fear, maybe. “I hate this.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But we’ll get through it. I promise.”

For a moment, I thought she might argue again, but she just nodded and turned away. I watched her retreat into the bedroom, my chest tightening with the weight of everything unsaid.

The hours ticked by,and I kept digging. Every lead brought me closer, but it still wasn’t enough. The longer this went on, the more I felt the walls closing in. Naomi’s safety was all that mattered, and I was running out of time.

When I finally looked up from the screen, the apartment was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

“Naomi?” I called, standing and moving toward the bedroom. The door was open, but the room was empty. My pulse spiked as I checked the bathroom, the closet, every corner of the apartment. She was gone.

“Damn it,” I muttered, grabbing my phone. I dialed her number, pacing as it rang. No answer.

“Pick up, Naomi,” I growled, trying again. Still nothing.

A sinking feeling settled in my gut as I tried to piece it together. She’d been restless, frustrated with being cooped up. It wasn’t hard to figure out what she’d done.

She’d gone looking for answers.

I slammed my phone down on the table, the sharp sound echoing through the apartment. Every instinct I had screamed that she’d gone to confront someone—someone she thought might have the information she needed. And she hadn’t told me because she knew I’d stop her.

Grabbing my keys, I headed for the door, my heart pounding. Naomi wasn’t picking up, and I had a bad feeling I knew why.

Chapter Eleven

Naomi

The small diner at the edge of town felt like a terrible place for a confrontation. Its peeling wallpaper, flickering neon sign outside, and slightly sticky tables screamed indifference, as if nothing truly important ever happened here. That might have been why I chose it. Or maybe I thought I’d blend in, that no one would notice me walking in with my heart pounding and my nerves stretched so tight they might snap.

I hadn’t told Hudson where I was going. Honestly, I didn’t even know I was coming here until I was already halfway through town, my phone clenched in one hand, his contact staring back at me from the screen. Something stopped me from calling him. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was the thought that he’d try to stop me if he knew. Either way, I was here, alone, waiting for a man who represented everything I’d tried to leave behind.

The bell over the door jingled, and I straightened in my seat, trying to look more confident than I felt. When I saw him, I froze. He hadn’t changed much—same sharp features, same cocky swagger. Time hadn’t softened him. If anything, it had made him harder, sharper, like he was trying to prove something.

“Naomi,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me with a smirk. “Long time.”

“Not long enough,” I replied, forcing my voice to stay steady.

The smirk faltered, and he leaned back, eyeing me. “You’ve got some nerve calling me.”

“Guess I do,” I said. “But I need answers.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from amused to annoyed. “Answers? About what?”

“About why I’ve been looking over my shoulder since I came back to Cedar Hill,” I said, leaning forward. “About why someone’s been following me, trying to scare me. And about whether or not you had anything to do with it.”

His eyes narrowed, and he scoffed. “You think I’ve got time to waste on you? Don’t flatter yourself, Naomi.”

“Don’t play games with me,” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “I know you. You don’t let things go. So tell me—are you behind this or not?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked on mine like he was trying to decide whether or not I was worth the effort. Then he leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. “You always did have an overactive imagination.”

The words stung, but I refused to let him see it. Instead, I held his gaze, waiting, willing him to say something—anything—that would explain why my life had turned into a nightmare.

“Look,” he said finally, sitting back with a sigh. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but whatever it is, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Then who?” I asked, my voice trembling despite myself. “Who’s doing this?”

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