I wake with a gasp, something invisible pulling me out of sleep.
“Shit,” I whisper toward the ceiling, as I roll onto my back, my chest rising and falling with quick inhales.
My bladder makes itself known and, with a groan, I roll the rest of the way out of bed.
It’s only a matter of steps to cross the hall and enter the dark bathroom. And I don’t bother with the light, dropping my sleep shorts and sitting on the toilet.
Looking down at the shadowy outline of my shorts, I shake my head. I never wear these pajamas. I bought them last year in an after-Christmas sale in a fit of impulse shopping. The silk shorts are a bright red, clashing with my pale thighs; and the top is a cream-colored silk with short sleeves, red buttons, and a red collar. And I don’t need the lights on to tell me they aren’t the sexy pjs I thought they were. They’re basic. Cheap. Another failed attempt at being something I’m not.
Yanking my shorts up, I wash my hands and am grateful I can’t see my reflection.
This whole outfit was for him.
Leaving my hair down when I went to bed was for him.
Stupid, Payton.
Seriously, what was I thinking? I left my patio door open, in the ridiculous hope that my Mystery Man would see it, take it for the invitation that it was, and come ravish me.
So stupid.
And on top of being dumb, now my apartment is freezing.
I feel around on the vanity until I find a hair binder and quickly pull my hair up.
I haven’t seen that man since he walked out my front door.
There’s been a few times that I could’ve sworn I’d seen him outside the café, but every time I’ve turned my head to look, the street has always been empty.
He’s not watching over me. I’m not on his radar.
I cross my arms against the chill, and trudge to the living room. I need to close that door before I get myself sick.
My footsteps slow on the carpet. The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
My heart clenches, and I stop walking.
The door is closed.
