Too wired to go back to sleep after hashing things out with my boss, I hopped in the shower. He wasn’t all that pleased with me. While he certainly can’t blame me for the weather, he slipped in there an underlying current of blame—if I didn’t have this “sport hobby thing,” his words, not mine, I wouldn’t even be in Atlanta to be getting myself stranded.
For fuck’s sake—I think he wants all of his employees to be mindless, no-life drones. He let me reschedule, though, so there’s that. I rinse the last of the soap off my body, wrench the taps shut, and yank the towel off the shower door where I’d left it. It’s while I’m drying off in vigorous strokes and dressing that my mind spins with how I might be able to salvage this arseways situation. Dressed, I drape the towel around my neck and step out of the bathroom. Only to see Claire, her change of clothes gripped in her hand, her gaze averted.
Feeling every inch of my bulk—inches from her delectable but off-limits body—I slip past her and flip on the telly, running a towel over my damp hair, my mind now latched onto Claire and how we’re stuck in Atlanta.
Shite. Because of the call to my boss, I forgot to look for another room. I tap around various sites, searching. Nothing.
I glance around the impersonal room. If we’re stuck here much longer, I’ll need a laundrette. I’ve been in Atlanta for a week, and no girl wants a stinky gouger sharing their room. That is, if she’ll let me stay. She’s already barely tolerating me.
The shower turns on. Bleedin’ deadly. She’s in there, stepping into the sleek stall, naked. The water sluicing over her curves. Fuck.
I collapse onto the couch and surf through the channels, stopping at the broadcast of the Summer Olympics. It’s track and field day, and I settle in to be watching the 100-metre dash.
In front of me, there’s a dark red footstool. Or ottoman? It’s the same height as the couch seat, but it’s covered in pleather. Footstool then. I hike my feet up and stretch back.
The bathroom door clicks open. I can’t be helping myself. I glance up. Claire steps out, her hair wrapped in a towel, her robe closed tight around her, her bare legs peeking out below, which, yeah, I’ve seen on the field, but it’s different this time. Like I’m seeing a warrior without her armor.
Fuck. I’m starting to think more about her than my presentation.
She gives me a sheepish curve of the lips, one that acknowledges that we’ve landed in a hella-awkward situation. Her gaze lands on the telly, and she sharply turns away and heads into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. A distinct chill settles over the room.
In other words, more of the same in the story of our prickly interactions, yeah.
Chapter 4
Claire
Hands shaking, I close the door.
Crap. Already it’s hard dealing with Conor sharing my space, but seeing the Summer Olympics on the TV? Ugh. I grab a brush and pull it methodically through my wet hair.
I have no desire to see the visuals or hear the commentary that is the Summer Olympics. I can’t always avoid it, but when I can, I will.
I take my time going through my clothes and selecting what to wear. It’s not because Conor is here, but because doing so will mean less time seeing the games. It’s a reminder of the most painful part of my life. When my mom rode preteen me hard to train for the Olympics. I loved sailing and showed promise, but that’s all. I had no desire to make the US sailing team. But did I express my wishes and trample my mom’s? No.
Because those forces you hear about on TV—those stage moms who live vicariously through their kid? Yep. That was my mom. The pressure to please and perform messed with my head. And having to wear a swimsuit all the time as I was going into puberty? Hello, fresh hell. Especially when I compared my body with my mom’s lithe, model-thin one. I have no idea what my dad looks like, but I’m guessing I took after his side of the family.
I slip on a functional pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The first time I forced myself to throw up was a quick solution to overeating one day when I realized how that would make my body even more unlike my mom’s. Had learned the “trick” from a friend. And then…
And then I became overly familiar with the stalls at the Sailing Squadron in Pensacola where I trained, throwing up when no one could hear. The sick thing is, it was working, sort of. Until it didn’t.
I made my body so unhealthy that I failed the Olympic trials. My mom and my boyfriend at the time were disappointed. And because I’m empathetic and hadn’t yet learned to distinguish someone else’s emotions from my own, I felt every drop of it.
Somehow, hitting that low point was my salvation. Because I sought help.
But I’ve never forgiven my mother, or myself, for having to break off with her completely to heal. That’s why I won’t visit her now, despite my stupid bargain with Jane. Going back would be like revisiting my old, sick, less secure self, and who needs that? I’ve remade myself, from the ground up. Maybe if I told Jane about my mother, she’d let up on the pressure to visit her. It’s just that…it’s so hard admitting that weak part of me. Admitting that there was a time in my life when I wasn’t the strong person I am now.
When I close a drawer after unpacking my whole suitcase and look around for something else to do, I pause. Whoa.
I’m hiding in my room.
The unpacking can be kinda-sorta excused because I’ll be here for a few days, but, yeah, I’m hiding. This is not me.
I roll my eyes and step into the living room. Conor is splayed out on the couch, his large frame taking up a good chunk, his muscled forearms stretched along the back. Thank God he’ll be in his own room soon. That is…
“Any luck finding a room?”
He looks up and hits the remote on the TV, shutting it off.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me—that is, if you’ve a mind to keep letting me crash here?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. But I can’t kick him out. “Sure. That’s fine.” I look away. “You hungry?”
“I’ve a mouth on me, yeah.” He stands, and we silently head out the door, down the hall, and to the breakfast buffet area. All the while, his presence is like a warm pressure behind me.
How the hell am I going to get through a full day and another night with him and not expose my feelings?
To distract myself on the way, I text Jane: Make it okay?
Almost immediately comes her reply: Yes. You?
I tap out a quick update on what’s happened, and by then we reach the lobby. Like most mid-priced hotels, the breakfast area is a room off here. It’s half full, with most people on the phone as they eat, trying to contact relatives about the storm. The scent of breakfast goodness greets me. Man, I’m hungry. The buffet has a little of everything, and I thread down the line with my plate and pick whatever speaks to me. No judgment. I also snag a glass of OJ and a hot tea.
Back at my table, I spread a napkin in my lap, cut a hunk of melon in half, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as my tongue touches the cool surface and my teeth bite down. The flavor bursts on my tongue like the freshest sunrise. My taste buds sing. I slowly chew it, noting its different flavors, letting them seep into me.