Page 13 of Angel’s Claim

The relief is so overwhelming I laugh out loud—a short, sharp sound that surprises me in the quiet room. I grab my phone and check the time without turning it on fully, 11:04 AM. I must have slept for almost twelve hours straight.

I sit up slowly and stretch my arms above my head, feeling every muscle in my back protest. The mattress is lumpy and uneven, the springs poking through in places, and I'm pretty sure I just slept in the shittiest bed I've ever been in.

But I've never felt this free.

Not once in my entire life.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, still wearing Angel's cut. The leather is warm from sleeping in it all night, molded slightly to my shoulders now, and I should probably take it off, but I don't want to.

The clock says 11:06 now. Angel said he'd come by at noon.

That gives me less than an hour to get ready.

Panic flutters in my chest, the good kind, the kind that comes with anticipation instead of dread, and I hurry into the bathroom.

I need to shower. Do my hair. Figure out what to wear. Make myself look like a person who has her life together instead of someone who ran away from her own wedding less than twenty-four hours ago.

I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up while I brush my teeth. My reflection in the mirror looks better than it did last night. Less exhausted, more alive, but my hair is still a disaster.

I'll have to make do.

I shower quickly, using the last of the tiny shampoo bottle and wishing I'd thought to pack my own toiletries. I make a mental list of things I need to buy: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothpaste, deodorant, makeup, more clothes.

The list gets longer the more I think about it, and my chest tightens slightly when I remember I only have two thousand dollars to my name.

I push the thought away. I'll figure it out. I always figure it out. I dry off and wrap the towel around myself, then stare at my backpack like it might magically produce a cute outfit.

It doesn't.

I have sweatpants, the Fleetwood Mac T-shirt I wore yesterday, one pair of jeans, and a soft pink sweater. That's it. That's my entire wardrobe for my new life.

I pull on the jeans and the pink sweater, then stand in front of the bathroom mirror trying to do something with my hair. It's still damp, falling in waves past my shoulders, and I don't have a blow dryer, a straightener or any of the products I usually use.

I run my fingers through it and let it air dry. It'll have to be enough.

I dig through my backpack until I find the small makeup bag I shoved in at the last minute: just mascara, lip gloss, and concealer. I apply them slowly, trying to make myself look less like I spent the night in a motel and more like someone worth coming back for.

When I'm done, I step back and assess.

I look... okay. Not great, but okay. The sweater is flattering, the jeans fit well, and my hair is doing that natural wave thing that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't.

Today, it works.

I check the time, 11:43.

Seventeen minutes.

I slip Angel's cut back on over my sweater and immediately feel more grounded. The leather is heavy and warm, and it still smells like him.

I wonder if I should give it back when he gets here.

I wonder if he'll ask for it back.

I wonder what it means that I don't want to take it off.

I pace the small motel room, too nervous to sit down, too anxious to stay still. What if he doesn't come? What if last night was just him being nice and he doesn't actually want to see me again?

What if—