I awake to an empty bed.
The sheets beside me are cold, and the faint scent of Claire hangs in the air—a maddening mix of vanilla and something distinctly her.
The room is dim, a hint of gray seeping in through the curtains. I glance at my phone on the nightstand. 5:07 a.m. Too early for anyone to be up, but then again, you can never tell with that woman.
“Claire?” I call.
A shuffle from the bathroom catches my attention. And then there she is, tiptoeing out as if she’s trying to escape unseen. She’s wearing my shirt, which hangs loosely on her petite frame, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair is back in a messy bun, strands escaping in wild disarray that only makes her look more tempting.
I sit up, switching on the bedside lamp. The sudden light makes her freeze mid-step. Her han
