Better With You (Better Love 2)

14

Grabbing my suitcase from the front desk, I vow to give Bailey a few hours to cool down before I have to break the news to her that we’re gonna be roommates.

I packed my shit and checked out early this morning before grabbing her from her room and heading to the convention center. The front desk manager has been instructed to call me if any other rooms become available, but this close to the holidays, the chances of that happening are slim.

Today was rough. I could tell from her body language that Bailey is pissed. The hug was a mistake, so I’m prepping myself for a blow up the moment she hears how badly I screwed up our reservations. I’m in no hurry to face her, so instead I grab a burger and a drink at the hotel bar. I call Mom, but Ms. Beth says she’s unavailable and will have her call me back as soon as she can. I respond to the texts from Talia I’ve been avoiding. She wants to know how the contest is going, and I tell her fine. She wants to know if she should still come for Christmas dinner, and I say yes. My family will expect her to be there. When she rings through with a video call, I accept, because I was just texting her and ignoring it would be a prick move.

“Hey, handsome,” she croons. She’s sitting on her white four-poster bed in her parents’ house, and it looks like she’s wearing some sort of slinky silk nightgown. She’s also holding a glass of wine and her grin is mischievous.

“Hey, yourself,” I say with a smile. “Are you drunk?”

“I thought you liked me drunk.” Her voice is a purr, her eyes dancing and glassy. I shake my head with a laugh. Talia is so buttoned-up, so proper. Every bit a prima ballerina. I don’t get to see her like this much anymore—fun and flirty.

That’s your fault, I think suddenly. I sigh. Yeah, it is.

We talk for a while, and when my second drink is gone, I tell Talia goodnight and march myself toward the elevator. A condemned man about to meet his executioner.

This is going to suck.

When I turn down our hallway, I’m immediately confused. There’s a room service cart sitting outside Bailey’s door, untouched. A warm bottle of pop sits on top, and when I lift the silver lid of the food platter, I find a cold burger and fries.

Curiosity hits me first.

Unease comes next.

I knock loudly on the door and wait.

Nothing.

I send her a text and knock again.

No answer from either.

I try to call her, and it goes straight to voicemail.

What the fuck?

Quickly, I pull out the keycard from my back pocket and fumble it to the door. My heart is racing, nervous of what I will find. Is she okay? Did she leave? I don’t know what I would do in either situation besides freak out and maybe fucking rage.

It takes three tries, but when I finally get the green light, I hold my breath and swing the door wide open.

And then exhale on a laugh.

Bailey is fine.

Better than fine, apparently, if the way she’s waving her arms in the air and bouncing around is any indication. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth is moving as if she’s talking to herself. When I look closer, I see her earbuds are in and her phone is in her hand.

Singing.

She’s not talking to herself. She’s singing. And she’s not just waving and bouncing; she’s dancing. I say her name, but she doesn’t notice me, so I step in, close the door, and lean back on it with my arms folded across my chest. If she doesn’t see me in thirty seconds, I’ll step closer. I don’t want to startle her, but I don’t want to invade her privacy any more than I already have.

Though, admittedly, I would rather just watch. I’d much rather glue my eyes to her ass and tits and face and keep them there, but Odette DuPont Stanton raised a gentleman. So instead, I count out thirty seconds in my head.

I’m at ten when she notices me.

Ten and a breath when she jumps backward, screams, and trips over the couch, falling gracelessly on her ass.

“Oh my god,” I bark, half-laughing, half-concerned. I rush to her. “Are you okay?”

I grab her hand and help her up, and the minute she’s on her feet, she shoves my chest. Hard.

“What the fuck, Butch! You tryin’ to scare me to death?” Her voice is loud but breathy, and she rips out her earbuds. “You ever heard of knocking?”

She’s pissed. Great. This will not make our situation any easier. But what did I expect? I broke into her room and scared the shit out of her. I throw my hands up in a whoa, there gesture.

“I did knock. And I texted and called. I saw your untouched room service cart and thought something had happened.”

She furrows her brow and looks quickly toward the door, then down at her phone, noticing the missed calls.

“I was worried,” I add. “I’m sorry for scaring you, but I was worried.”

Her face softens immediately, like I spoke magic words, and I’m floored when she apologizes. Apologizes sincerely, with no malice.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “My phone was on Do Not Disturb and I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She chuckles. “This playlist is like three hours long.”

“It’s fine.” I smile at her. “I was just worried. I’m glad you’re okay.”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for checking on me. You can go.”