20. Fuggitiva & Flight Risks
Chapter twenty
Fuggitiva & Flight Risks
Declan
The morning after that one night in Vegas.
The first thing I notice is the silence.
The second is the smell.
It hits me like a slap—sharp, sour, offensive. I crack one eye open and glance toward the window, light filtering in through heavy hotel curtains. Then I glance down.
Barf.
All over my lap.
“Che schifo…” I mutter in Italian, grimacing as I slowly shift upright. It’s dried. Cold. And everywhere.
“Maddy!” I yell. Where the fuck is my wife?
No answer.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, careful not to move too much and smear whatever this is my wife left behind. It’s 11:03 a.m.
Not surprised I slept like the dead after the night we had. After what we did.
Hell, I barely remember crashing into bed. Just remember her body, her laugh, the way she agreed this doesn’t feel crazy at all.
My wife.
I grin like an idiot for half a second.
Then frown.
Because the room is… quiet. Too quiet. Empty.
I glance to the bathroom—door open, lights off.
The floor is clean.
Her clothes are gone and, by the looks of it, my little fuggitiva took my sweater.
My wife is gone.
I look down at my lap again.
And all she left behind… is vomit.
“Fucking hell.”
Happily ever after? More like happily never even got her number.