She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I mean I’m the one who started it, and I kind of… wanted you to,” she said sheepishly, chewing her lip.
The corners of my mouth curved up a little as I gave something of a laugh. “Then we’re good,” I assured her, hauling her suitcase onto the rack. I was ready to tell her to get in there—to grab her clothes and get changed—but something hanging in the silence told me that she had something to say, so I held off for a moment and when I looked up again, she was still standing there, looking at me.
Biting her lip.
“What did you say to him exactly?”
I clenched my teeth as I looked back at her—as I processed her swollen lips and that glimmer of something in her eye I’d never seen before. Something impulsive. And reckless.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to repeat it, AJ,” I finally said.
“Why not?”
I drew in a deep but silent breath as I just looked at her, saying nothing despite knowing the answer to her simple question of why not.
Because she was in a vulnerable state. Because I’d get hard as a rock if I told her. Because I couldn’t predict what was about to happen next, and while I generally thrived in that kind of situation, it was only because AJ was always in control—always three steps ahead me and ready to rein me in if I got too crazy.
And right now, she wasn’t in the place to do that. She was angry. Emotional. The fact that she was standing comfortably before me in just a silk robe and lingerie was the first sign that something was seriously wrong. The fact that she was also asking me to describe a fake scenario in which I’d put my hands all over her body was confirmation that the situation was entirely fucked.
So with the sternness I was used to getting from her, I doubled down.
“It’s just not, AJ,” I said. “Now come on,” I nodded at her suitcase. “Get dressed and we’ll order some dinner.”
She nodded through the first few words of my sentence but then blinked at me. “Don’t you… have a date tonight?” she asked, but I was already shaking my head.
“Nah. We’re doing room service and Catfish tonight,” I said, grabbing the menu off the table and handing it over to her.
She blinked at me a couple more seconds but then she nodded, taking the menu like it was an assignment. And once we were finished ordering, I gave two knocks on her suitcase on my way to the bathroom.
“Get changed. I’m gonna shower and once I get out, we’re gonna eat and drink and watch the trashiest shit we can find on MTV or Bravo or… fuckin’ HGTV if that’s what you want. How’s that sound?”
I glanced over my shoulder to catch her cracking a half-smile at the edge of the bed, a lock of hair in her face and her robe falling slightly off one shoulder.
“Sounds good,” she said, her voice soft in a way I’d never heard it, and her eyes briefly locked on me with a look I didn’t recognize. But then she turned back down to the menu, and as much as I wanted to linger for some reason, I didn’t. Instead I got into the bathroom and closed the door.
And as I stripped down, I turned the shower to the coldest water there fucking was.
6
AJ
I may or may not have crushed two full Makers and gingers while Adam was in the shower.
But in all fairness, I had every right to.
Aside from the whole Caspar-blowing-up-my-world-by-cheating-on-me thing, I’d had fresh mountains of logistical bullshit to deal with, namely the fact that this hotel—along with every neighboring one in Palm Beach—was fully booked for the weekend thanks to some golfing tournament, and on top of that, I couldn’t even cancel the reservation I’d made for my philandering liar of an ex-fiancé.
Did I expect to be able to kick him him out on his ass tonight? No. Did I fully hope I’d be able to do that for tomorrow and steal his reservation as my own?
Yes. Absolutely.
But apparently, canceling wasn’t allowed without forty-eight hours notice, which meant my ex could still cheat on my dime if he so pleased and I was shit out of luck in terms of a place to stay for tonight or tomorrow.
My third drink was consumed while avoiding eye contact with a freshly-showered Adam as he acted like it was no big deal if I just stayed with him tonight. And that consumption only accelerated as he turned to face the bar, allowing me to drunk-stare at the way the damp cotton of his T-shirt clung to his shoulders, dipping into those muscled lines in his back as he poured himself a drink.
“Considering you’re already hammered, it’s probably best for you to just stay in and try to relax,” he had said to me, to which I’d argued, “I am not hammered,” while stuffing an ambitious handful of fries into my mouth—a famously hammered behavior of mine.
And that was the end of that discussion.