Chapter 10
I wake with my limbs twisted, my face smashed into an unfamiliar pillow.
My mouth is dry and sour, I have a stomachache that reaches my toes, and I’m wearing…
a bathrobe? It’s thick terrycloth and soaked in sweat.
My brain tries valiantly to situate itself, but with the throbbing headache, it’s a little difficult. I roll over and open my eyes.
An unnaturally dark room with the curtains drawn tightly.
White numbers on the clock telling me it’s ten in the morning.
The outline of a TV on the wall, hung next to a large picture of a blob in a gold frame.
This bed has a fluffy comforter that doesn’t reek of cigarettes, which means this is not my hotel room.
In fact, on the other side of this bed, across a wall of pillows, is a lump of a person, fast asleep. Nate.
Why the hell am I in bed with Nate? Coherent thought may be too much for me right now, but panic isn’t. I scan the room wildly, searching for more clues about what happened last night. When I spot Nate’s waterlogged sneakers sitting atop a towel in the corner, it comes back to me.
We did not find Logan.
I fell in the pool.
Before that, we talked, and the things he said stunned me. Remembering them now, mostly sober, knocks me flat. Or it would, if I weren’t already flat.
I must’ve slept here because of—shit—the pool incident.
In my memory, that part of the night flashes in fragments like a strobe light.
Feeling the splash as Nate jumped in beside me.
My screeching “He’s a trained lifeguard!
” as he helped me find my footing, and “You’ve got a handful of ass!
” repeatedly as he carried me out of the club.
Trying to explain to him that my actual hotel room is across the street.
Stumbling into his bathroom to floss my teeth, because I never miss that step, and loudly insisting that I couldn’t go to bed without—oh god—my DUMP HIM T-shirt.
Ordering room service fries, which are sitting untouched on a tray in the corner, because I probably passed out before they arrived.
Nate presenting me with water and ibuprofen at my bedside like my hangover prevention nurse.
This hangover is not the kind that could’ve been dodged with pre-bedtime treatment, though. I haven’t been drunk in a long time, so it feels like a new kind of awful. So awful I can’t yet digest the significance of what Nate said last night.
He did want me. I wasn’t wrong about us. And while I felt rejected, he felt like I’d been dismissive of his fears. I try to reassess the last two years in light of those facts, but my head is spinning and pounding at the same time.
There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, so I gulp it down with another ibuprofen and drag myself to the bathroom for the longest pee of my life and a shower that does nothing to alleviate the odor of shame emanating from my pores.
I need more rest. Instead of the heavy bathrobe, I slip back into my dress, which Nate thoughtfully draped over the shower curtain rod to dry overnight. When I tiptoe back into the room, he’s still asleep.
If I try to go outside into the Vegas sunshine, I won’t make it across the street without puking, so I sneak back under the covers on my side of the bed.
It’s hard to settle down with Nate’s steady breathing so close to me.
Of course, it was a lot closer last night in the club, when he set his mouth against my ear to tell me he used to want me like I wanted him.
He was afraid. And fair enough. I’m sure he felt vindicated when he got back to L.A.
and found out I was with Caleb after all.
Did I do it to spite him? Fuck, I don’t know.
I don’t think spite is in my repertoire.
Moving on with someone else, someone who was available and clearly interested, seemed like the fastest way from devastation back to happiness.
Trying to be happy, now that’s in my repertoire.
The part of last night I keep coming back to, despite my spotty memory, is how it felt to have him carry me out of the club.
One hand on my thigh, the other on my hip, my upper body thrown over his shoulder.
My dress soaked and clinging to me, clinging to him as he moved.
There was care in the way he held me—not just because he was taking care of me, but also like he was trying to be respectful.
I wonder if he was hyperaware of my body, the way I’m hyperaware of his now.
He turns over, and his shoulder pokes out from under the comforter. I realize he’s not wearing a shirt, and it’s all I can think about until my eyes fall shut.
When I wake again, Nate is awake next to me, rubbing his eyes. I peek at him over the pillow barrier and try not to budge from where I’m cocooned under the covers. He moves a leg, and the mattress shifts.
He somehow senses that I’m conscious. “Hey,” he says.
I wish I hadn’t fallen back asleep. My body may have needed it—thankfully, the urge to vomit has subsided—but I could’ve used the time to acclimate myself to the whole sharing-a-bed thing. Especially since he doesn’t seem fazed.
“Morning.” My voice is raspy from all of last night’s shouting.
He arches his back and raises his arms above his head, making a little groaning noise as he stretches. Good lord, that sleepy, satisfied sound, and his body moving next to mine, inadvertently dragging the bedsheets across my skin. It feels like he’s touching me.
He kills that sensation pretty quickly. “We should talk about last night.”
I pull the blanket up to my chin and roll onto my side, facing him. “Okay.”
He studies me for a moment, probably trying to figure out how to tactfully say We would’ve found Logan if you hadn’t drunkenly decided it was time to rehash our baggage or You ruined everything and I hate you now.
I mentally prepare my apology. Then he says, “I’m concerned that you may need swim lessons. ”
“What—”
“All that flailing, I don’t know what stroke that was supposed to be.”
“Hey!”
He mimics me, I guess, windmilling his arms. “I’ve seen kindergartners enter the pool more gracefully than you did.”
“Okay, I—”
“And we need to talk about shoes. You’re not supposed to wear them in the water.”
His eyes crinkle, and I dissolve into laughter. I grab one of the three pillows wedged between us and chuck it at him. It’s a weak throw, but he lets it hit him in the face, which makes me laugh harder.
“Maybe I’ll sign up for Nate and Logan’s Aquatic Education Camp,” I joke.
An awkward look crosses his face. I guess he doesn’t want to talk about it when it’s not a sure thing. He pushes the pillow to the foot of the bed. “How bad are you feeling?”
“Terrible. Earlier I considered eating those eight-hour-old French fries. I clearly can’t be trusted to make a decision until I recover.”
“I’m feeling it too. Let’s order food.” When he leans over the nightstand to pick up the phone, the comforter falls away, exposing his back.
Smooth skin with a few freckles on his shoulders, swimming-honed muscles that lead to the pair of dimples at the bottom of his spine.
This is probably what he’d look like lying over me.
A dangerous ache rolls through my body. I’m hot again, and acutely aware of the tiny piece of silk I’m wearing. I should’ve stayed in the bathrobe.
He calls down for two orders of eggs and hash browns, plus a Diet Coke for me, and hangs up.
“I didn’t realize how drunk I was until we couldn’t find your room.
I could’ve sworn it was on the fifteenth floor.
You kept saying you wanted to go outside, but that seemed like a bad idea.
I hope it’s okay that I brought you here. ”
We were honest last night, and in the end, it’s going to be good for us.
It feels like progress compared to the wheel-spinning we were stuck in before, so I try the truth again.
“I lied to you yesterday.” I tuck my knees up against my chest. “I’m not staying at this hotel.
It was too expensive for me, so I booked a room across the street. It’s awful, but it’s cheaper.”
He blinks. “What? You goof.” Before I can protest, he grabs the second pillow from between us and tosses it at my face. “Why didn’t you say something?”
The pillow is blocking my view of him, so I poke a hand out from under the blankets and nudge it over my shoulder and onto the floor. “I don’t know. It’s embarrassing. My financial situation—well, it isn’t great. I can’t spend money on things like this hotel room.”
“Shit,” he says. “I had no idea. Is it because of your parents?”
“Sort of. I’m working on it. It’ll be fine,” I say. “Anyway, I’ll let you recover in peace once I have enough energy to stand.”
“Stay as long as you want. My bed is…your bed?” He cringes as the words exit his mouth.
“Wow,” I say with glee.
The last pillow smacks me in the nose before I can brace myself. I let out a phony yelp of pain and roll onto my back.
“Shit!” He pulls it off me. “Sorry, sorry.” I cover my face with my hands, laughing too hard to respond.
He makes a choked sound. “Quinn.” His tone is different. Serious. Admonishing?
I move my hands. He’s lying halfway over me, the way I imagined a few minutes ago. Up close, I can see the shadow of stubble on his face, and his chest is warm against my bare shoulder.
Oh, no. My bare shoulder. We’re both still under the covers, but after that last flurry of movement, they’re no longer up to my chin.
“Why are you wearing that?” he asks. “What happened to the bathrobe?”
“It was hot.” My voice is breathy. “I didn’t put it on to…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence.
“To what?”
“Um,” I say, thinking of the hungry way he looked at me last night, after a few drinks.
His next words come out low and bashful. “To torture me?”
“You didn’t like the dress.” I know it’s not true, but I can’t think straight with his body so close to mine. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I realize I’m biting my lip.
“I liked the dress too much.” He says it with a tiny, sheepish smile. The hair on his leg brushes my calf, and I slide my ankle under his. He swallows, and the sound fills the room. “What are you thinking about?”
I let out a shaky breath. He hasn’t moved his leg away. “Back dimples.”
“What?”
It feels like we’re suspended in amber. I can’t focus on anything outside of this bed. I can’t focus on anything with my brain at all, really. I surrender to instinct and shift to face him, sliding my hands around his back and pressing a finger into each of the indentations.
He shivers and ducks his head into the crook of my neck. He’s moved closer, or I have, or both of us, and his chest presses against mine. Oh, lord. My adhesive bra cups are at the bottom of the pool.
I rake my fingers across his back, grasping for more. He grips my leg and pulls it over top of him, squeezing the inside of my thigh, and I whimper. The world is made entirely of body heat and stubble and the pressure of fingertips and—
A knock at the door. “Room service.”
“Shit.” He jumps out of bed and drags his palms across his forehead. I don’t protest. Stumbling, he pulls on a pair of gym shorts and heads to the door.
It’s probably better this way. The last thing I need to add to my mess of a life right now is a man.
Even one who wanted to keep me safe last night, to get me warm and dry, who knew I was spiraling this morning—because he reads me like no one else can—so he joked around to stop me from worrying.
A man who held my thigh like he never wanted to let go.
It’s a dangerous train of thought. It’s just…
in the moment, there was no train of thought.
I stopped thinking about everything, and it felt so good.
That’s the power of Vegas. It’s the same feeling that convinced me to drink so much last night, which I can’t regret, because now I know the truth.
But what I really need is to center myself, and taking this further will send me off course.
When Nate returns with the food, I’m wearing a pair of his sweatpants and pulling one of his T-shirts over the top of my dress. “I’m going back to my room.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s better if I do.”
“But your breakfast—”
“Thanks.” I stuff a forkful of eggs in my mouth and take a long drag from the glass of ice-cold soda. Damn, that’s good. “Text me later?”