Restraint - Adriana Locke Page 0,18

a pair of sunglasses. Irritated, I dump the remaining contents onto the sofa.

Still, nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ve misplaced my card. Can I call you back?”

“Absolutely. Hope you find it.”

“Me too. Thank you.”

I press the red end button before tossing my phone onto the sofa. My heart strums in my chest as I hurry to my briefcase and pop it open. My credit card isn’t there. It’s also not in my suitcase, but I check it just in case.

Shit.

“Where did I have it last?” I groan, massaging my temples with my fingertips.

My brain is doused with a fog that somehow hovers over everything after I left the Landry’s house. Certain pieces are strikingly clear—Holt’s jawline through the candlelight at dinner, the sound of his voice on the balcony, the weight of his body on top of mine.

But that’s it.

Me, Blaire Michelle Gibson, the person who prides herself on attention to detail, has not even a shred of an idea where her credit card might be.

“This is mortifying,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

I can imagine my brothers’ reaction to this story. Walker would grin but not say a lot—he’d just let the look in his eye do all the talking. Lance would outright laugh at me, and Machlan would make some asshole comment about getting laid.

Despite the fact that my cheeks heat, I find myself smiling.

I get up and go to the room phone beside the bed. Bringing the receiver to my ear, I press the zero button. The line buzzes a couple of times before a woman’s voice greets me … and asks me to wait. The line goes to on-hold music immediately.

The music does nothing but heighten my anxiety. Each beat amplifies the dread building inside me.

I had the card at the airport in Chicago to purchase a latte.

Did I have it to get the rental car? Yes, I did.

Okay, breathe.

Did I have it at dinner?

The line crackles as the attendant comes back.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman says. “How may I help you?”

I sigh, imploring myself to be patient.

“This is Blaire Gibson in room 1924. Has anyone turned in a credit card with my name on it?”

“Not that I recall. Can you hold, please?”

“Sure.”

The line gets muffled before she returns. “It’s not here. If it gets turned in, we’ll call your room or the number on file.”

“That would be excellent. Thank you.”

She laughs. “I wish all my customers were as pleasant as you this morning.”

“Bad day?” I ask as I rub my forehead.

“No. It’s just that all of America is calling for a hotel room next week, and they aren’t taking nicely to the fact that all hotels in Savannah are booked. But that’s what happens when you have the Seafood Fest and a Kelvin McCoy concert in town the same week.”

She goes on about the concert and how she tried to get tickets, but they were sold out in twenty minutes. All the while she’s telling me this, a phone ring incessantly behind her.

“Well, maybe you’ll get some next time,” I say, raising my voice slightly in hopes it will draw her back to her, our, current predicament. “If you get my card, please call. I need to go cancel it, I guess.”

“Absolutely. Have an excellent day, Miss Gibson.”

“You as well. Goodbye.” I set the phone back on the receiver.

The towel wobbles on the top of my head as I sit on the bed. I remove it and unwind my hair from the bright white material.

I could call the restaurant from last night. And the hotel. And Holt.

While there is an undeniable pull toward the last option—and I even find my eyes searching for my phone at the thought—I quickly bring myself back to reality.

I left him this morning for a reason. It was a calculated, non-emotional rationale that I’m fully confident was the right decision. Nothing good would have happened if I had stayed.

The corners of my lips twitch.

Well, something very good probably would’ve happened—if I could be so lucky. But then it would get awkward with a walk of shame through a hotel in the morning rush.

“I need to cancel my card and move on,” I tell myself as I get to my feet. “It’s the logical solution.”

I run a hand through my locks as I make my way to my phone. As soon as I reach it, it rings. It’s an Illinois area code.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hey, Blaire. It’s Sienna.”

“Oh, hey. I didn’t recognize the number,” I say,