Page 82 of Mile High Daddy

Because the truth is?

I have nowhere.

Alex sees it the second the realization hits me.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing his jaw. “That’s what I thought.”

I clutch the strap of my bag, desperate. “I just—” My breath catches. “I have to figure something out.”

Alex doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Let me take you somewhere safe.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“I have friends,” he says. “They don’t ask questions. They don’t talk. I can get you out of town without anyone noticing.”

My heart races. “You’d do that?”

He shrugs. “You need help, don’t you?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to drag him into this.

But I don’t have a choice.

I nod.

Alex gestures toward the bag. “Let’s go.”

As I follow him out of the apartment, I don’t dare look back.

I wakeup to the sound of rain.

For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The sheets beneath me are soft but not mine, and the scent that lingersin the fabric—clean soap, faint coffee, something unmistakably masculine—is unfamiliar.

Then it comes back to me.

Alex.

I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling slowly.

He brought me here. To his apartment.

Because he didn’t think I should be alone.

Because, for some reason, he gives a damn.

I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face. The window across from me is streaked with rain, the world outside dim and gray. The clock on the nightstand says 12:47 PM.

I slept for hours.

Longer than I have in months.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I tug on the oversized sweater I wore yesterday and push myself to my feet. The apartment is quiet, save for the faint clinking of something from the kitchen.

I pad out into the open living space, stopping at the sight before me.

Alex is at the counter, stirring something in a mug, his back to me. He’s wearing a loose gray T-shirt and sweats, his posture relaxed but his shoulders still carrying that same coiled tension he always seems to have.

I shouldn’t be staring.

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