Page 96 of Accepting Fate
Checking my surroundings to make sure no one is behind me, I pause at the stop sign. I need to make a split-second decision if I should check The Hideout, my house, or his first. I don’t see Noah’s Jeep or his bike at The Handle so there’s a good chance he’s at The Hideout. But if Gray isn’t feeling well, he wouldn’t go near Noah’s hyper ass.
Taking a moment proves to be beneficial because something in my gut is telling me to check his place first.
Again, I drive faster than I should and reach his house in minutes. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding when I see his truck in the driveway. I don’t see any lights on, so he could be out on his bike, but it’s been stormy all day so I doubt he would be.
Hopping out, I walk quickly and type in the garage code. The door seems to take forever to open, and I’m greeted with the sight of his bike inside.
I step into the house and flip on the kitchen light., “Grayson. Are you here?”
Nothing.
Oliver jumps down from his cat tree and scampers over to me. He paws at me until I pick him up.
“Where’s your daddy, buddy?” I ask as if he’s going to help me.
I can’t help it. I’m in crisis mode and need to find my caveman.
With Oliver snuggled up in my arms, I make a quick perusal of the downstairs and the porch.
No sign of Grayson.
Taking two stairs at a time, I check every room along the way, calling out his name.
When I reach his room, Oliver jumps out of my arms and runs to the balcony door. That’s when I see a dark figure sitting in a chair.
Please be okay. Please be okay, I plead.
Careful not to startle him, I open the door. “Bear?” I say hesitantly.
He doesn’t turn around and look at me. “Logan, what are you doing here?”
He sounds a million miles away and he never calls me Logan. It’s always Angel or pretty girl. I still don’t understand the nickname, but I hate that he isn’t using it.
Walking around to stand in front of him, my heart breaks at the sight of him. His hair is disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His expression is completely blank while he holds a beer and stares out at the forest.
I can’t take seeing him like this.
Dropping to my knees in front of him, I take his face in my hands. “Bear. What happened? Are you okay?” I try to search his eyes for a hint of what’s going on, but they remain void of any emotion.
This isn’t my man. It’s like the lights are on and no one’s home. Gone is my sexy, possessive, happy man and here sits a shell of him.
When he doesn’t answer, I stand and straddle his lap, my legs on both sides of his thighs. Taking his face in my hands again, I tilt it, so he has no choice but to look at me.
“Please, Bear. Talk to me. Did something happen? Is your mom okay? Is it one of your brothers? Please, Bear, I’m freaking the hell out here.”
He doesn’t respond.
Pressing a gentle kiss to his lips I pull back and attempt to fix his hair. My hands knead at the base of his neck and into his hair. Lately, I have learned that this relaxes him. During movie nights, he sometimes lays his head in my lap, and I absentmindedly play with his hair. Ninety five percent of the time, he falls asleep within twenty minutes. I don’t want him to fall asleep right now, but I need him to relax enough to talk to me.
Minute by minute, I feel the tension melt off his body until he wraps an arm around me and crushes my chest to his. My arms wind around his neck and he buries his face into my neck.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding defeated.
Leaning back so I can meet his eyes, I shake my head. “Don’t be. But please tell me why you have been MIA all day and not answering my calls.”
Grayson sets the beer down and cups my face, brushing his thumb back and forth over my cheek. “I’m sorry, Angel.”
My stomach drops. Why does he keep saying sorry?