She grabbed the phone, looking to see who was calling. Mick. Sighing, she debated whether to answer. After that awful night two days ago, she’d turned off her phone and refused to look at her e-mail. She’d needed the time to get in her head and figure out what she wanted to do about the mess. The problem was that her heart spoke louder than her head, whispering a steady stream of yearning for Mick that didn’t even stop in her sleep. Dreams of him touching her, loving her, left her aching when she awoke. The first few seconds of consciousness were wonderful—tumbled with sleep and warm in the cocoon of her bed, she luxuriated in the memory of the man she loved until the harsh reality that he wasn’t hers left her gasping with the pain of the loss. Mick had been persistent, even calling Chris to try to get her to talk to him, but she hadn’t been ready to face him. But just this morning she’d left her apartment for the first time since the story broke and the mob of photographers at her building entrance had only grown.
