Crashed by Elise Faber
Chapter Eighteen
Brandon
He showered in record time,not trusting Fan to stay in the bedroom.
He half expected her to pick the lock and join him.
But she hadn’t.
And even though he really wanted to take her to the restaurant—she deserved so much, not the least of which was a nice meal at a fancy place, no matter how many favors he had to call in—he could admit that he felt a little disappointed.
Wet, slick Fanny would never be resistible.
Hell, it had nearly killed him to not climb into bed with her and to shower instead.
Sighing, he thrust a hand through his hair—which was as much styling as he did nowadays—and then wrapped his towel around his waist.
Then he unlocked the bathroom door and moved into the bedroom.
His cell was on his dresser, hers was next to it.
But Fan wasn’t anywhere in sight.
“Baby?” he called, yanking open a drawer and stepping into his underwear. He’d expected to have to fend her off when he came out. But maybe she’d decided to give them both a break and go downstairs.
He tugged up a fresh pair of slacks then buttoned on a blue shirt that would match Fanny’s gorgeous dress.
Shoes and socks. His phone in his pocket.
“Fan?” he called again. Maybe she’d taken a call.
No, dumbass, her phone was right next to his. He grabbed hers, too, stuck it in his pocket. Maybe she’d gone out back.
But she wasn’t there either.
Nor was she on the couch, having fallen asleep.
Not in the kitchen or the other bathroom. Not in his office reading a book. Not . . . anywhere.
He opened the front door almost robotically, and his heart sank when he saw her car wasn’t in the driveway.
Unlocking his phone, he went to call her, forgetting again for a moment that she didn’t have her cell. It opened onto the message screen. Onto a new voicemail from . . . Dr. Lyon.
A sinking feeling settled into his stomach, tugging him down, down.
“Shit,” he whispered, hitting play on the message.
This is Dr. Lyon. I have the results of the tests you asked me for. Please, give me a call right away. It’s imperative we make some decisions regarding the status of the samples.
“Fuck!”he burst out after the message ended.
Because it didn’t take a genius to figure out what Fan had heard, what conclusion she’d come to. Why she had suddenly disappeared.
Fury coursed through him.
He’d thought they were over this. That they were moving forward.
That they were done letting fear or the past take them down again.
And the first time he’d gotten a message about his health, the first fucking time, she’d run. What the fuck was that? Look, he got it. She’d been fucked over by the circumstances of his health almost more than he had. But this? This was fucking bullshit, and she needed to know it.
He sighed, trying to cool his temper, but it was nearing on impossible.
Why hadn’t she just talked to him instead of disappearing?
Didn’t she understand how fucked up that was?
But . . . trauma.
It didn’t magically go away just because they were together. And the path to healing wasn’t a straight one. Shit went down, things got fucked up, but the real mettle was being a person to fix things. He couldn’t fix things before, couldn’t make the cancer go away or the memories come back. But he sure as shit could fight for Fanny, could explain what the call was about, and stay, no matter how many times she pushed him away.
He closed the door, but only for as long as it took to grab his wallet and keys before heading back outside and getting in his car.
He knew where she would go.
So, he’d follow. He’d fight.
And then he would make her understand, shake some sense into her until she recognized that their lives were connected for-fucking-ever.
No matter where she ran.
And then maybe he’d kiss her.
Okay, he would definitely kiss her.
Especially if kissing was the most efficient avenue to get that sense into her.
