“Ow!” Lottie gasped, and I stepped off.
I tangled a hand in my hair. “Sorry. Shit.”
Lottie pressed fingers to her wounded, parted mouth. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. This was everything I’d always wanted, but my chest ripped and pounded.
It was wrong. The kiss. This moment.
“I guess I’m your fiancée now. Even if we can’t announce it yet,” Lottie said, obviously trying to move past it, dropping her fingers with a smile. “A dirty secret. I’ve never had one.”
Seal it with a secret.
“A Christmas wedding,” I said, clearing my throat. “At least you love Christmas.”
Her brow furrowed. “I hate Christmas, Grayson.”
I could’ve sworn I’d heard her say she loved it. Before she could see the frown forming on my lips, I shot her a smile.
“Whatever fucking wedding you want, Lottie. We’ll get married on the moon if you want.”
She grinned, but just as quickly, it fell. “As long as you really don’t have anyone. I can’t go through with this if you have someone.”
I thought of Snitch.
There was something forming between us. Not just friendship, a tether in my soul.
At night, I wait for her.
I grabbed Lottie by the waist, pulling her to me, eliciting a small squeal.
“It’s always been you,” I said against her lips.
Thirty-One
STORY
* * *
I was in France.
I was in France, on a private island, and miserable. Gray hasn’t said a word to me since Lottie visited. He was with her for hours, and when she left, he didn’t come back to the wing. He only came to get me in the morning to get back on the plane.
And that was the most he’d spoken to me.
I don’t know what they talked about. For all I know, they spent the night together. It’s not like I can ask.
After all, I’m nothing to him.
We spent all day on the beach. I sat on warm white sand, staring out at a mesmerizing aquamarine ocean, wondering how hell could look like paradise.
That’s it.
The moments before Lottie had interrupted us played in my head like a broken record, over and over again. Scratching and pausing at the worst moment, while I’d stared at Grayson’s shirtless, sun-kissed muscles, strung-out for some kind of attention.
That’s my girl.
Any kind.