Page 71 of His Surrender

She isn’t my girlfriend.

She isn’t my wife.

She isn’t … mine.

The thought lands with enough force that I physically flinch.

I drain the rest of the whiskey and set the glass in the sink.

Dammit, Dean, she’s fine. She’s twenty-two years old. She’s out to dinner with a neighbor.

Nothing bad has happened. Nothing bad is happening.

I pace toward the windows, then back toward the kitchen and toward the foyer.

The microwave clock changes—11:02.

My chest tightens as my eyes land on my phone sitting on the counter.

I could call her. Just to make sure she is safe. That’s reasonable.

Isn’t it?

Except it isn’t. It’s insane. I’m already reaching for my phone anyway when the elevator hums.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid as the doors slide open.

Aubrey steps into the foyer, slipping her phone into her purse as she walks inside.

She doesn’t see me immediately.

Relief crashes through me so powerfully that my knees almost give out. But anger follows so quickly that it steals the relief away.

“A little late, don’t you think?”

A gasp falls from her mouth. Her head snaps toward me in the kitchen.

“Dean?” She blinks at me, clearly surprised to find me. “What are you doing, standing alone in the dark?”

I set my phone on the counter. “I asked you a question.”

Her brows pull together. “I … went to dinner.”

“I know that.”

She takes a couple of cautious steps until she’s in the kitchen. “You knew where I was.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s after eleven.”

Confusion slowly gives way to irritation.

“I’m sorry.” She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“You could’ve checked in.”

“I didn’t realize I needed permission to have dinner.”

“It isn’t about permission.”