Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Here’s a food menu if you want it. Kitchen is open until nine.”
“Thanks.” I ignore it. Continue watching the lobby doors.
A few more arrivals drift through; the two men in suits pay their tab and leave. The bartender returns to ask if I want anything else—I don’t. I fold my napkin in half to give my hands a task, then toss it down.
I’m not sure when I finally accept it, but acceptance has a shape: the weight of the key card in my pocket, the bill tucked under the edge of my glass, the straight line my legs find when I stand.
She’s not coming.
Of course she’s not.
She’s in a relationship.
“Have a good night,” the bartender says, easy.
“You too,” I answer like I didn’t spend an afternoon pacing ruts into the carpet of the room upstairs.
The lobby is colder on the way back. The hall is long.
My key card works on the third try, just about pissing me the fuck off with its irritating red light the first two tries. I flip on the light, then slide the dead bolt; remove my wallet from my pocket and toss it to the desk, my phone face down beside.
Shoes off.
I strip off my clothes and pull on the T-shirt and sweatpants I wore to bed last night.
Brush my teeth, watching my reflection.
I think about what I’ll say to Benny when I return home, knowing she’s going to ask a hundred questions about Layla, knowing I’m not going to have the answers she wants. She’s going to be crushed, and you know what? It’s my fucking fault.
I think about getting on a plane and doing my job and not letting a woman who isn’t mine take any more of my mental space.
Lying in the center of the bed, I breathe. In. Out. Map out my day tomorrow, taking my delayed flight into consideration: Breakfast at the hotel. Text Coach with an update. Text Benny good morning. Land. Glue for slime. Home.
Sounds good, yeah?
I hear a tap, hollow to be the heater settling. I ignore it.
Then I hear another one. A tentative knock—two quick raps that tingle up my spine. Check the time.
8:01.
Jesus Christ, why does it feel like midnight?
Every muscle wants to lunge at the door, but I force myself to ease off the bed like a normal person, like I don’t care who it is standing on the other side.
I refuse to give my chest another chance to cave in or a reason to hope.
Another knock.
Louder this time, as if they aren’t sure I’m still here.
“One second,” I manage, steadying my breath and inhaling a few.
I check the peephole.
For several moments I don’t move. My brain needs a buffer to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. Then the chain scrapes, the dead bolt slides, the latch gives.
I open the door.
“Hi.”
Chapter 38
Layla
I’m almost too terrified to knock.
I almost turn around, ride the elevator back down, get in my car, and drive home to the steady, safe life that’s waiting for me. The life that makes sense. The life that has nothing to do with the man standing behind this door.
But I don’t. I knock. Two taps, quick and nervous, before I can change my mind.
The sound echoes like a gunshot in the long hotel hallway. My stomach betrays me and does a little lurch, wanting to vomit.
I press a hand there to steady it. Ugh!
My intention was to say goodbye. That was the plan. The adult thing to do. Walk up here, thank him for introducing me to Benny, for treating me in Arizona, for making me feel special and desired, for what we almost had.
Then I was going to go home to Grady and trick myself into believing I did the right thing.
Except somewhere between the driver’s seat and the fourth floor, my resolve cracked. Between my apartment and the stern lecture from Faith about following my heart and the reminder to myself that I’ve known both men the same amount of time . . . something inside me shifted.
I don’t want to say goodbye.
Not to him.
The door swings open and there he is, standing in bare feet, gray sweatpants, white T-shirt. His hair is mussed from restless hands, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are cautious and hungry all at once.
I swallow hard. “Hi.”
He doesn’t make me explain myself in the hallway. He steps back, leaves the door in an open invitation, lets me cross the threshold on my own accord.
We stare at each other in that awkward, breathless way of people who have already done the hard things—kissed, said too much, said not enough—and still don’t know what to do with themselves.
It’s awkward in an emotional way.
“I . . .” He speaks first, pausing. “Can’t fucking believe you came.”
“I did.” I nod. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”
Hayes waits to see if there’s more to my sentence, and when there isn’t, he repeats himself. “I seriously cannot believe you’re here.”