Yates Donovan froze in place. A window to the side was open—he'd cracked it before leaving to help alleviate her feverish heat.
He was standing right in the draft, and the evening breeze chilled his exposed skin.
But for some reason, his blood began to race, his body temperature spiking until it was frighteningly hot.
It was as if he was the one who had been drugged.
His Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow. Acting as if nothing was wrong, he crumpled the piece of fabric into a ball and carelessly stuffed it into his suit pocket.
'My thoughts are a mess.' But he had no time to sort them out. The call had ended at some point—he hadn't even noticed. He'd tossed his phone onto the sofa.
Directly across from him was the dimly lit bathroom.
She must have been in a panic, flipping on a single, random light.
Through the frosted glass, he felt as if he could still see her silhouette.
Yates Donovan felt rooted to the spot, unable to take a single step.
His Adam's apple bobbed.
