It’s after midnight when I’m woken by the buzz of my cell sliding across my nightstand. I reach out to it, fuzzy from fatigue and blurry eyed, disorientated.
“Emma Anderson.” I breathe huskily without opening my eyes. I’m on auto pilot.
“Where are you?” That bark has me sit up with a start.
Crap. Jake!
He sounds pissed and I’m too frazzled with sleep for this, shocked awake with his surprise contact.
“New York,” I gulp, suddenly reeling by the fact he’s finally calling me.
Is he back on the boat?
I get a tinge of regret at leaving.
“You’re at your apartment?” he’s grumpy and coldly distant.
“Yes.” Is the only reply I can give; I sound so vulnerable and young it annoys me. There’s a silence and a tension crackling on the line. I rub my eyes in a bid to feel less zombie like, pin
