Page 95 of Silver Fox Puck

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I have things to do today.

I don’t have time to sit here obsessing over a man who finally decided I wasn’t worth his effort.

Right?

Right.

I fling off the covers, already determined to ignore every single damn thought about Grant Maddox.

And by determined, I mean I last a solid three minutes before his face creeps back in.

Son of a bitch.

I refuse to sit still.

Because sitting still means thinking. Thinking means overanalyzing. And overanalyzing means spiraling.

So I launch into full-blown distraction mode.

First? Cleaning.

I strip my bed, throw the sheets in the washer, scrub the kitchen counters like I’m in a kitchen cleaning competition.

Then? A workout.

A brutal, soul-crushing HIIT session that leaves me drenched in sweat and zero percent closer to forgetting Grant Maddox.

Okay. Fine. Errands.

I drive across town for groceries, even though my fridge is fully stocked. Walk through a department store, even though I don’t need anything.

And the entire time?

I check my phone.

Every.

Damn.

Five.

Minutes.

No calls. No texts. Nothing. Grant isn’t reaching out.

My stomach tightens. I tell myself it’s a good thing. That he’s respecting whatever the hell boundary he set last night. That this is exactly what I wanted.

But the truth?

It’s unraveling me.

Because I expected something.

A text.

A call.

A stupid, smug one-liner that would let me pretend this was still just a game we were playing.

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