Padding back down the quiet hall, I stop at the entrance of the living room. Chase is at the window, framed by the falling rain and looking every inch a movie star.
As if sensing my presence, he turns, smiling. The warmth in his eyes is my undoing. Setting aside my insecurities, I can’t help smiling back at him like a lovesick girl.
“The bathroom is all yours. I found the condoms in the drawer.”
Crap! Double crap!
“Toothbrush! I mean, I found the toothbrush!” I correct in a rush.
I should stop there. But Chase’s smirk makes me even more nervous, and the horrifying word vomit just keeps coming.
“I found the condoms, too, but I didn’t mean to tell you that. I didn’t mean to snoop. It’s none of my business. None. Please forget I said that,” I plead and take a deep breath, hoping oxygen will eventually find my brain and make me shut up.
Chase says nothing, just strolls toward me like a jungle cat on the prowl. Even his smile feels predatory. I stand at the edge of the narrow hallway, frozen as he approaches me, his strong body brushing up against me.
My body catches fire with every part of him that touches every part of me. He pauses as we stand next to each other, flanked by the walls, my skin a live wire of nerves.
“There are some things I can’t forget, Olivia.” His breath is a breeze against my ear.
A dimple flashes in his cheek. I hold my breath until he oh-so slowly moves past me.
When he passes, I let out a long breath, sagging against the wall. It holds me up as I watch Chase stroll toward the bathroom, admiring his long legs, broad back, and that ass.
Damn that ass, I think. I scrub a hand in front of my face as the door shuts and then the shower turns on, and I imagine how he must look naked. It makes me whimper. I may not survive the day.
CHAPTER 16
Chase
Being stuck in a hotel suite with Olivia is like being in heaven, while on a fast track to hell. The more time I spend with her, the guiltier I feel for lying by omission and not telling her about my double life as her pen pal.
But growing up on the streets, you learn to not throw away fleeting moments of grace. So today, I’ve decided to just enjoy it all and worry about the devil to pay tomorrow.
We call down to the front desk, and the concierge sends up a Scrabble set, which we plan on playing later, and enough snacks and junk food to last for weeks. Sometimes, it’s good to be a movie star.
“It’s your turn,” I prompt.
We sit on the floor cross-legged, facing each other.
“Shh, I’m deciding.” She leans over to steal a peanut M&M from the bag in front of me and pops it into her mouth.
I fixate on those lips for far longer than is appropriate before I shake my head. “You’ve been deciding for five minutes. There needs to be a time limit.”
“Fine,” she says. “Truth.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer. She’s never talked to Remington about a guy in her life, so I’ve always assumed she doesn’t have one, but I realize now that there’s a lot she hasn’t told him—me—so I’m questioning everything.
“No.” She hesitates briefly, before saying with more decisiveness, “No boyfriend.”
Relief flows through me. But something about the way she answers makes me feel like she isn’t telling the whole truth.
“Was there someone?”
“That’s two questions.”
I wait patiently. Our staring contest stretches. Her eyes are beautiful, storm gray against her pale skin.
“Yes, maybe.” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Who?” I try not to glare, but I’m not successful.
My jaw clenches. She’s not mine, I remind myself. She’s just a long-distance friend that I have no claim over. And she doesn’t even know she’s that.
She looks out the window, watching the rain. “I thought maybe there was someone. The possibility of someone, at least. I liked him a lot. I imagined he might like me.”
“And?” I urge, torn because I want to hear the story as much as I don’t want to hear it.
She tilts her head. “I was wrong.”
The stark way she says it has my chest constricting. Some asshole broke her heart. And I want to break his face. Who was he? In all the years of letters and texts, she never indicated that there was a boy she cared about.
“What happened?”
“In retrospect, he was just a friend, and that was all he’d ever be. I never even met him. Isn’t that funny?”
Shit. She means Remington. She means me.
Her smile doesn’t meet her eyes. “I didn’t realize it was possible to fall for someone just through their words. We were pen pals. I know that sounds a little old-fashioned.”
Relief that she doesn’t have another guy and guilt that I’m the asshole who hurt her war within me. Guilt, as always, wins. What am I doing? Ironic that we’re playing truth or dare because if she knew the truth, she’d hate me.
I should do the right thing and change the subject. But I don’t. “And then?”
She hasn’t mentioned Remington before this, except for the charm bracelet, so I was beginning to think all it took was a celebrity to forget the years of friendship between us.
“I liked him. A lot. Long story short, he friend-zoned me,” she continues. “I sent him my photo, and he wasn’t interested. I guess he didn’t like what he saw,” she mumbles, looking down.
Her words hit me like a blow to my core.
I got my answer. She does care. Instead of making me feel better, it guts me, because I’m responsible for her pain and insecurity. I tried to do the right thing, but it still hurt her.
I think of an alternate future, where if things weren’t so complicated, if I were a normal guy, then we could have met and fallen for each other. I’d get to do all the things with her I dream of every night.
But that’s not reality.
As she looks down, her hair falls like silk, partially shielding her face. “Daisy said it’s for the best because I’ve been too hung up on a fantasy. But it’s not as if any other guys are knocking down my door. It was the first time I ever put myself out there, and I guess it was a hit to my already less-than-stellar confidence. I mean, someone who I thought of as my best friend let me down easy after seeing my photo.”
She covers her face with her hands and then peeks out at me, what looks suspiciously like tears shining in her eyes.
“I don’t know why I dumped all that on you. This is so embarrassing.”
Fuck it. I have to say something.
She believes Remington blew her off because she isn’t enough. But that’s bullshit. She’s everything. And she needs to know it.
I grasp her hand. She’s warm, exquisitely soft, and I want to run my fingers over every inch of her body, but I resign myself to whispering my thumb across the sensitive skin on her wrist.
When her questioning eyes meet my serious ones, I steel myself, determined to explain somehow. “Olivia, I-I can’t tell you why this guy couldn’t give you what you needed. But I know there’s not a chance in hell it had anything to do with you, because you are absolutely, utterly, and completely beautiful, inside and out.”
I can feel her pulse race at my rough, quick words. I lace my long fingers through hers. I need to make her understand just how special she is. I caused this, and I need to fix it. She must know that every part of her is deeply wanted.
“Any guy would be so fucking lucky to have you. To be yours. The only thing I know is, this guy…he doesn’t deserve you. And I’m sure, wherever he is, he knows the value of what he lost. And that he’s lost without you. Because who wouldn’t be?”
Her mouth opens in surprise, eyes wide with a questioning stare.
I tilt my head back, and I watch her through slitted eyes. She leans toward me, and I inch toward her. Inch by infinitesimal inch. I’m obsessed with the way her top lip is almost as wide as her bottom. I have to have a taste.
Between us, my phone on the table rings.