Crash and Burn (Crash and Burn, Book One) (A Military Romance) (7 page)

I flip through the DVR menu options and select the show. The screen changes as a commercial about bathroom cleaner comes on.

“Don’t you dare spoil this for me,” I say with narrowed eyes and mock consternation, taking a massive bite of cheesy pizza. “You’re the worst for that.” Still, I’m glad to see his funk didn’t last long and seems to be ebbing fast. Maybe it was just a mild, temporary flare-up. It makes me feel better about following my gut and coming home, though.

Before I can forget, I grab my phone and send Dane a quick email explaining what time I left. I use the excuse that I thought he might have left for the day too, and then apologize profusely just to cover my backside. I tell him I’ll be in extra early tomorrow and will make up any time he feels I need to, then sign off and send.

I drop my phone on the end table and curl my feet up in our big comfy chair, which has to be a good ten years old now. Our apartment isn’t filled with expensive things, but it’s warm and it’s home. Our mom made the quilted green-and-blue blanket on my lap before she died a few years ago. A real family heirloom, one I treasure. It’s soft and worn, the last project she did to distract her during a brutal round of chemo.

My brother cringes and puts his pizza slice on his plate, rubbing the stump of his left arm, which was removed just below the elbow.

“You okay?” I toss the blanket aside and jump up. “Need some pain meds? I can grab—”

“It’s fine,” he says with a groan as he rubs the knotted, scarred flesh. “I took some ibuprofen before you got home. It just takes a little more time to kick in.”

I frown, but settle down into the chair.

The show comes back on after another minute, and my mind wanders as I think about all the things I need to do tomorrow. I should make a list—I gotta start my paper, plus go to the grocery store and pick up stuff for dinner for the rest of the week. Plus there are the bills I haven’t paid yet, and the tires on the car seem to be a bit low…

I reach for my purse by the side of the chair to get out a pen and paper. Then I pause, hand stuck in the middle part of the purse.

Where is my journal?

I open the large handbag and peer inside, my stomach squeezed in a tight knot of anxiety. Oh God, I didn’t. I didn’t leave it at work. No, I couldn’t have.

My throat closes.

Yup, I did.

Shit.
Shit.

With stiff limbs, I put my purse down and stare blindly at the TV, not wanting my brother to see my worry. I can’t believe I did that. How stupid could I be?

Maybe Dane won’t see it. Or if he does, maybe he’s a gentleman and won’t look inside. Surely he would respect my privacy, right?

Plus, there’s still the chance he left before I did, and if I get in early enough tomorrow, I can reclaim my journal before anyone knows about its existence.

Part of me is tempted to drive all the way back just to get it, but I convince myself to stay put. It’s just after nine PM. There’s no way he’s still in the office—since I’ve started working for him, we’ve never been there that late, as he often opts to take work home with him and finish up there. I’m being paranoid. Besides, my building pass won’t work to let me back in after six PM, so I can’t sneak in anyway.

The die has been cast, and I just have to hope that everything’s safe.

That night in bed, I lie awake for hours until sleep’s seductive pull finally tugs me under. The last thing I imagine is Dane’s face, disgust and disappointment deep in his eyes over what he read in my journal. Right before he fires me from my job.

C
lick
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