Wait—she was losing two little girls. Where the hell could they have gone? She threw herself on the motel carpet, skin crawling at the thought of what filth the fibers held. “Are you under here?” She peered under the king-sized bed where she’d spent the night, not with her pretend fiancé but pinned by a three-year-old and a four-year-old. She had so many bruises from being kicked in their sleep that Buck would probably have something to say about it. And her eye socket was strangely tender this morning, making her believe she’d taken a fist—or foot—to the eye. No little girls under the bed. Nothing but a strange old sock. Repressing a shudder, she ran around the room, whipping back curtains and even looking inside her suitcase. “Where the hell did they go?” She’d gone into the bathroom for two minutes and come out and they were gone. Nobody had a key but her, so it wasn’t possible that Asher had come looking to take his little girls to breakfast.
