Chapter 12 Asher Nash

She’s Gone

I roll over, the intense pressure in my head reminding me why I typically choose any other beverage over straight whiskey, and as I reach to wrap my arm around the woman who seems to have stepped out of my dreams, my arms can’t seem to seek her out.

The other side of the bed seems empty, and the sheets feel…cool. As if they’ve been vacant a while.

“Des?” I say—or I try to say it, but my voice comes out all raspy and hoarse.

I swallow, but my mouth is dry, and I clear my throat before I give it another attempt. “Des?”

She must be in the bathroom.

My eyes open slowly to the light coming in through the windows. We never closed the drapes last night, I guess. I squint as I try to adjust to the brightness.

I sit up and rub the sleepiness from my eyes, and when I open them again, I can focus.

That’s when I spot my clothes from last night. My jacket is on the desk where we left it, and as I recall, her dress wasn’t too far away…but it’s not there anymore.

Those strappy shoes that made her legs look like a million bucks are gone, too.

I force myself out of bed. The headache is pounding, but I’ve been much worse off after a night of drinking than I am now. I thank my genes and my youth for that luck, I guess.

I pad over to the bathroom, poised to knock on the door…but it’s open.

And dark.

She’s not in there. She’s not anywhere in this room at all.

Even her thong is gone. She bolted and didn’t even leave me a souvenir.

I take care of my bathroom needs and splash a little water on my face when I exit, and I pad over and sit on the edge of the bed as I reach over toward the nightstand and pick up my phone.

So she just…disappeared.

She’s gone, and it’s like she was never here at all.

I check my phone, searching for Desiree in there, but I don’t recall exchanging numbers. We didn’t even take a photo together.

It’s almost like I dreamed last night up, and maybe I did. Maybe it was hallucinations from the whiskey, and this Desiree doesn’t even exist.

Maybe she went downstairs for coffee or something, but somehow I doubt she went downstairs in last night’s ballgown since neither of us had any other clothes with us.

Maybe she went downstairs to find some other clothes. Now there is a real possibility.

I lean against the headboard, still stark naked, and I wait in case she’s about to return.

I have no idea how long she’s been gone, though, and it seems rather delusional that the sheets would be as cold as they are on her side if she just left.

I know I’m a heavy sleeper, but why would she bolt like that?

I guess she just wanted a night with the tight end.

Well, she got it.

I shouldn’t be broken up about it. I shouldn’t care at all, really. It’s not like this was my first one-night stand.

So why do I care?

I draw in a deep breath as I force myself up to gather my clothes. I’ll need to walk out of this hotel in my suit from last night, as if it’s a badge of honor that I’m walking out in daylight in the same clothes I wore to the party last night.

Today is for nursing hangovers and letting go.

I don't know anyone at that charity ball last night who knows who this woman was. She seemed to be fully disconnected from everyone present. But what are my options here? I could ask Lincoln who she was and track her down through him—if he even has that information.

Or I can take it for what it was—one night with an incredible woman that I will more than likely never see again.

She's the one who left without leaving a number behind. Trying to track her down and call her up out of the blue at this point will make me look like the desperate fuck I am.

No…the ball is in her court. If she wanted to get in touch, she would've figured out a way. Hell, she figured out a way to get a last-minute ticket to a sold-out charity ball, so if she wants to find me again, I have no doubt that she will.