He froze, his whisky glass elevated just out of reach of his lips. He was in his bed, convalescing. Still. And he stayed that way, frozen with his glass raised, long enough to tamp down the desperate flash of pain caused by those words. He looked up to stare down his ex-best friend, Clifford Ross, who bore that painful news. There was no need to ask who she was.He took a moment more to glare at the man standing before him before tossing back the contents of his glass in one swallow. Of course, he knew she was gone. He was there, dammit. He saw her leave with his own disbelieving eyes.“You look like hell, Duke.”He set down his glass and ran his good hand through his bed-mussed hair and then down his face. He felt the scratch of two-day-old stubble on his chin. He knew he looked like shite; no words were required to acknowledge it.“What day is it?” he choked out. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, probably from loudly cursing Grace and himself to Hades—primarily himself—numerous times over the last couple of days.“Thursday.
