Why wasn't she answering her damn phone? Or at least responding to a fucking text?

The moment I left Café Carlyle on Saturday night, I'd been trying to reach her, to ask her to see me so I could properly apologize. But her calls had gone straight to voicemail, and the texts I'd sent left unanswered.

I deserved nothing less, I knew. The first time I acted like a jackass, she'd forgiven me. This time, I didn't deserve her forgiveness. She'd done nothing wrong. It had all been me.

It had occurred to me more than once as I waited for her reply that maybe I should walk away, should leave her alone. She deserved someone who would treat her better than I was capable of doing. Someone who wasn't going to assume the worst of her because of the other women he'd known.

But I didn't want to be that man anymore. I wanted to be a better man, one who might be able to eventually make peace with her. Be worthy of her.

My thoughts ran ragged through my mind, around and around, reminding me of all the ways I'd failed her...and of how miserable I would be if I couldn't at least convince her of how sorry I was. Even if I never won her back, maybe she wouldn't hate me.

I spent Sunday painting in the hopes it would distract me enough to keep me from calling or texting. Not artistic painting. I had no heart for that at the moment. No, I'd painted one of the guest bathrooms. It had been eggshell, and now it was alabaster.

On Monday morning, I went to Savannah's apartment, hoping to catch her on her way to work, but she didn't come out. No one did. I paced in front of the building, my agitation growing with every passing hour. By noon, when she still hadn't appeared, I reluctantly went back home.

Except home didn't offer the solace I wanted. All it had was reminders of what I'd lost. Rooms where I'd made love to her. Furniture full of memories of what it had felt like to be inside her, above her, behind her. And all those sculptures of her, of that amazing body, of how she made me feel. There wasn't a single one of them that hadn't been inspired by her.

Which meant I had no chance of escaping her.

And yet another night of broken sleep and dreams of her.

When I woke up, I knew there was one more place I could find her.

* * *

I was halfway to Abel Updike's office when a stout middle-aged woman stepped in front of me.

"Mr. Updike isn't seeing anyone right now," she said firmly.

I looked down at her and reminded myself that nothing that happened was her fault. I'd gotten myself into enough trouble projecting my issues onto other people. I didn't need to take things out on this woman too.

"I need to talk to him." I wasn't rude, but I certainly wasn't backing down either. "Tell him I'm here."

Something on my face must have told her that I wasn't going to walk away, because after just a few seconds, she sighed and shook her head. "He's just eating his breakfast. I'm going to step out to get him some coffee. If you happened to slip inside while I'm out, well, there's nothing I could do to stop it."

I waited until she disappeared before I went into the office. Abel was behind his desk, the front of his shirt dusted with crumbs and sugar. He glared at me as I shut the door behind me, but didn't tell me to leave.

"Where's Savannah?"

He shrugged as he swallowed. "Not here."

I waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't, I stepped closer to his desk. "Where is she?"

"Home would be my guess." Abel brushed off his shirt and pushed back from his desk. "But even if she was here, I'd tell you that she can't give you a preview of her article. That isn't how we do things around here. So if she promised you that you could have some sort of final say–"

I held up a hand and gave him a glare to back it up. "I just need to talk to her. You say she's at home?"

"I said that would be my guess," he corrected. "Or she better be, because I don't just let people take two weeks of sick leave if they're going to use that as a way around not using their vacation time–"

"Wait." My stomach dropped. "Savannah's sick? Sick enough to need two weeks off?"

Had I upset her that badly? That didn't sound like the tough woman I'd come to know. Something had to have happened since I last saw her. Something that had made her take that much time off. Had something happened to her family?

The questions hit me one after the other as I waited for Abel to give me some answers. When he didn't, I stepped around the desk. "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know," Abel snapped. "Not my place to ask, is it? She just called yesterday morning, said she needed two weeks sick leave, it was important, and she'd have all the paperwork in by the end of the week."

I wanted to grab him and shake him. How could he not have asked her if she was okay? If she needed anything? Was he an idiot or just fucking irresponsible?

But I didn't do any of that, didn't yell any of my questions at him, because I knew they were directed more at me than they were at him. I should have been the one to know where she was and what was wrong. She should have called me to tell me what was going on. I should have been taking care of her.

But I was the asshole who'd been too caught up in my own shit that I wasn't able to see the best thing that ever happened to me had been right in front of my face.

"I need to talk to her – not about the article – but I can't get ahold of her."

Abel's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Randell, I don't know what you're playing at, but if Miss Birch isn't answering your calls, then maybe you should take a hint."

I ignored his sage advice and asked another question, "What about her friends? Where can I find them? Her roommate, Everett."

"I would assume you could find him at her home address." Abel walked around me to the door.

"And if he wasn't at home but rather at work..."

Abel scowled, but seemed to figure that the best way to get rid of me was to just give me the information I wanted. "He works in the NYU physics department."

"Thank you," I said as I left. I gave the receptionist a smile and nod, but my mind was already a million miles away, running through all of the possible things that could be wrong with Savannah, all the things I should have protected her from.

By the time I reached NYU and managed to find the right department, my nerves and my patience were both frayed. Fortunately, I spotted the familiar blond before I snapped at anyone.

"Everett!"

He raised his head, his pleasant face immediately twisting with fury as soon as he saw me. His hands curled into fists and wondered if I was about to get a black eye for my troubles. It'd be worth it though, if I found out if Savannah was okay.

"What the fuck do you want?" he snapped.

"Where's Savannah?" I blurted out the question. "She's not answering my calls or texts, and her boss said she took sick leave. I went to your apartment and she wasn't there."

Everett stepped right into my space. "Stay away from her."

I was taller than average, but he still had several inches on me. I didn't back down though. "Where is she?"

"She's in the fucking hospital, okay? No thanks to you."