It wasn’t happening. She’d changed the sheets on the bed after Bobby left, but it didn’t matter. His smell—that masculine scent that was uniquely and distinctively his—still clung to the mattress, still filled the air in her room. Every time she inhaled she breathed it in. Breathed him in. Bobby. And every time she felt a jolt low in her belly, the ache heavy and unrelenting. Normally she basked in the way the scent lingered long after he left. It reminded her of all the good times they’d shared—and made her hungry for when he’d return. In the past she’d clung to it until it finally faded away, probably still imagining it long after it was gone. Now it felt like she was choking on it. They hadn’t had nearly enough time to satisfy all the pent-up energy and need she had for him before he’d gone and ruined it. Now every whiff of him seemed cruelly tantalizing, reminding her of what she’d never have again. Leaving the bedroom wasn’t enough. The rest of the apartment was too imprinted with memories of him, of everything she’d done with him in every inch of the place over the years, not to mention the damn scent.
