Chapter Eleven
R afe and I are forced to ride on the bus back to the hotel together. Covered head to toe in mud, we smell weird, and everyone politely declines to sit with either of us. Maybe it’s not only the stench but the scene we made and the inescapable aura of drama that’s following us. It feels like we’re causing issues wherever we go.
As the bus rumbles and lurches back to the hotel, we don’t converse with words, instead using a series of carefully architectured glares to express the infinite chasms of our mutual irritation.
I’m not even sure who I’m mad at right now.
Other than Whistle Mouth.
My hatred for her spans the widest, deepest sea.
I shake out my hair, raining flakes of mud onto the rubberized floor. I’m sure my gym shoes are ruined, and I hope that I can salvage my clothing.
By the time we arrive at our suite, I feel like I’ve been dipped in glue. A trail of grime streaks the pristine tiled floors, and I make a mental note to tip the cleaning staff extra tomorrow.
“Can I use the shower?” Rafe asks, finally breaking our stalemate. “The tub isn’t ideal for getting this off, and I’m not really a bath guy.”
“Sure,” I reply because it’s a reasonable request, and I’m not a monster. “You might as well go first. This is going to take me a while.” I gesture to the stygian mass of mud-caked hair plastered to my head. I’ll need an entire bottle of shampoo to get this out.
“You sure?” he asks, clearly doubtful of my uncharacteristic graciousness.
I blink at him. “Just don’t use all the hot water.”
He rolls his eyes and disappears into the bathroom, crumbs of mud littering a path in his wake like he’s luring small children to his gingerbread house. A few moments later, I hear the water start.
It would be a dick move to sully any of this pristine white furniture with a muddy ass print, so I grab a can of sparkling water from the fridge and head outside to wait on the balcony. The rain has momentarily cleared as clouds hang in the sky, but at least I can watch the sun inching towards the horizon. Today’s winning team will be sitting down to dinner soon, enjoying a spread of high-end cuisine and the singularly unique flavor of success.
Before we left the Blue Lagoon Adventure Park, I noticed Rafe in a heated discussion with his father. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I assumed it was about the contest. Why does David care? Surely, Rafe’s future at WMC is already secured?
My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my waistband pocket, wiping a smear of mud off the screen. It’s a text from Molly.
Molly: How was your day? How’s Andy?
After we were all disqualified, Andy played it off like he wasn’t bothered, but I could tell he was irritated with me and Lan. My instinct was to apologize, but I reined in the urge. We did nothing wrong. It was an accident, and Whistle Mouth was out of line.
Me: Eh, I don’t know about him.
Molly: Why?
Me: Because
I pause and stare at the screen, unsure of why I’m hesitating to tell her this.
Me: Rafe and Hannah broke up. That’s what they’re fighting about.
Molly: I WAS RIGHT
Me: But she wants to get back together, and she keeps calling him.
Molly: Oh… that’s… interesting?
Me: Is it?
Molly: I’m not sure.
Rafe calls to me from inside the suite. “I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”
The door to the second bathroom slams, and I stare at my blank screen. I’ll text Molly later to dissect every angle of this development. First, I desperately need to get this mud off.
It takes several shampoos and an entire bottle of body wash until I’m finally clean. When I’m done, I pull on my silk robe and emerge into the living area, toweling off my hair.
I spy Rafe sitting on the balcony, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. Good grief, is he trying to kill me? I nibble the inside of my lip in hesitation, decide I’m being a drama queen, and head outside.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly and painfully aware of the single layer of silk standing between Rafe and my naked body. He taps on his phone for a second and then tosses it on the table beside him, exhaling a sigh. Tucking his hands behind his head, he leans back and tilts his face to the setting sun.
“Hey,” he replies, and while it absolutely shouldn’t, that single casual syllable spreads over my skin like warm honey.
“I’m sorry,” I venture. “I didn’t mean for things to happen that way. I wanted to beat you fair and square, too.”
He opens his eyes and looks up, his gaze finding mine. It’s bronze and molten, gilded by evening sunlight. “Don’t sweat it, Tris. It was an accident.”
The way he says my name at that moment feels so intimate, almost like he’s never said it before. I’ve always understood how we fit together. In our own dysfunctional way, we’ve always made sense. But the ground is shifting, and I can feel him erasing all of my carefully drawn lines.
Then, something happens I wasn’t expecting.
Rafe’s face breaks into a slow, steady grin, hitting me with the heat of a thousand suns. It twists a potent spike of radiance, multiplying until I’m forced to step back. The dimple and the teeth and the curve of his full and perfect lips. The burnished light flaring in his dark brown eyes. The crinkle in the corners.
For the first time since I’ve met Rafe Gallagher, that smile is directed at me, and my entire world wobbles and goes sideways.
“The look on your face when Lan ran into you—”
He laughs, oblivious to my turmoil, throwing his head back with abandon. I’m not imagining it when a single ray of benevolent light beams from the sky and illuminates him like the angel in a Renaissance painting.
It takes a moment to return to my body. My outer shell shatters, and then… I laugh, too.
Rafe and I are laughing together.
“Your face when I grabbed you,” I add, and he laughs even harder.
“Can you believe Whistle Mouth had the nerve to kick us out?”
“That’s what I call her too!” I practically scream, and before long, my sides ache from laughing so hard.
He shakes his head, wiping the corner of his eye. “We should break into her room and put plastic wrap over her toilet seat,” he says. “Or hide a dead fish in her closet.”
“That’s so immature,” I say. “But we totally should.”
He smiles again, and I’m so flustered that my neck goes hot.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring like a psycho.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” I reply, finding my tongue.
It isn’t the first time. He did it with Rory when I was picked for this. And there was that time some asshole in a meeting talked down to me like I was a six-year-old, and Rafe made him apologize. I overheard him once telling someone off for hitting on me and clearly making me uncomfortable.
His smile dims, and his expression becomes inscrutable.
“No problem,” he replies and leans back on the lounger, closing his eyes and releasing me from the power of his attention. The band around my chest eases, my body sagging in relief. I need a moment to sort through what that smile just set free.
It offers the bonus of allowing me to admire him. Golden light reflects off the dips and curves of his torso, highlighting the cinder blocks of his chest and the bricks of his stomach. My tongue runs over my lips, begging for a taste. I want to bury my nose in his throat. Trace my fingers along the taper of angled muscle framing his hips.
Squeezing my hands, I force myself to look into the sun’s blinding light. Maybe if I fry my retinas, Rafe won’t be such a distraction.
“I was planning to order room service,” I finally say, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Do you want anything?”
With his eyes still closed, he replies, “Yeah, I’ll have a burger and fries, thanks.”
Before I return to the suite, I give myself another moment to ogle him.
“Stop gawking, Tris.”
I jump a hundred feet.
Fuck. He can’t see me—how did he do that?
“As if you didn’t come out here dressed like that on purpose,” I say and hear him chuckling as I duck into the room.
After I order, I change into a pair of shorts and a tank top.
A knock sounds at the door, and a man wearing a black vest wheels a cart into the room.
“Where would you like it, miss?”
“Out there, please.” I gesture to the balcony and fetch two glasses and a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Once the man returns to the room, he tips his head and leaves, closing the door as I step onto the balcony.
Rafe is standing at the cart, lifting the silver covers off our plates.
“Could you put on a shirt?” I ask. It comes out more as a demand than a question, but I can barely think right now. My mouth is operating with a set of unapproved directions.
“Why?” He gives me an innocent look, and I summon a glare.
“Because we’re about to eat, and it’s… unsanitary.” I gesture vaguely in his direction as if to demonstrate how his nakedness is contaminating my food. Who am I kidding? I kind of want his nakedness contaminating my… everything.
He sets the metal covers on the cart’s lower shelf and smirks as he passes me, entering the suite and disappearing into the second bathroom. With no bedroom of his own, he’s turned it into a makeshift closet-slash-dressing room.
A flash of guilt nibbles in my stomach, and I consider offering him space in my closet and then dismiss the idea. I don’t need him any closer to my orbit. Instead, I make it up to him by pouring him a glass of wine and setting his food on a small table between the two loungers. I settle on the left one with my knees straddled on either side of the table.
A moment later, Rafe emerges wearing a white T-shirt that molds to him so perfectly that I’m not actually sure this is any better.
“Happy?” he asks.
I suck in a calming breath. I have to stop this.
As he sits down across from me, I pretend I’m assessing his attire—but I make it look like I’m not enjoying it. I hope.
“Yes, now I can stomach my food.”
He points at my half-eaten burger. “Oh good, because it looks like you’re nearly done.”
“I had one bite.”
He arches a dark eyebrow as he picks up his burger. It looks so tiny in his large hands. He leans forward to take a bite, and his knees brush mine. I almost flinch at the shock that zips straight to my navel.
He takes another bite, shifting so my legs are sandwiched between his. When his calf presses mine, I try not to react. Was that deliberate? I’m reading far too much into this innocent movement. It’s just been ages since a man has properly touched me. That’s all this is. I think of my electronic friend that I packed and haven’t had the opportunity to use. I just need a little me time, and these wholly inappropriate urges will go away.
Our eyes meet across the tiny table. I want that smile again. I want his dimple and the light in his eyes. I want him to look at me the way he looks at everyone else. This is bad. A dimple isn’t supposed to be sexual, and I can hardly blame my drought on this. Tension settles around us, but it isn’t unpleasant. It’s alive and electric.
I need to break out of this moment, and thankfully, Rafe doesn’t disappoint me.
“What kind of maniac dips their fries in mayo and ketchup?” he asks before taking another bite of his burger. The way his mouth closes over the bun makes me wish I was—never mind. That’s even too sad for me to admit. His leg presses harder against mine as I narrow my eyes.
“It’s good. Since when is condiment selection related to one’s mental stability?”
Rafe snorts, snatches a fry from my plate, and dips it in my mayo and my ketchup. I make an affronted sound that he ignores as he puts it in his mouth, and now I wish were a— stop it .
A tiny blob lingers in the corner of his mouth, and I bite my lip as his tongue reaches out to catch it.
“Not bad,” he says, oblivious to the riot of sensation he’s inciting in the needy place between my thighs.
He smiles. Again. And I have to look away. This is too much.
We eat a while longer in companionable silence. When I’m done, I scoot back on my chair and fold my hands over my stomach.
“I wish I’d ordered dessert, too.” I stare forlornly at my empty plate, hoping something sugary will materialize by the sheer force of my pout.
Rafe finishes his food and wipes his hands on a napkin.
“Hold on,” he says, standing up and entering the suite. A moment later, he returns with a glossy white box tied with an elaborate gold ribbon.
“You can have these.”
“Ooh, what is it?” I perk up, swinging my legs to the ground. Rafe resumes his position in the lounger across from mine.
“Something I bought the other day.”
He shrugs, but the movement is tight as he stares at the box in his hands. I reach out and flip up the shiny tag. Macarons. Fancy ones with little pictures describing each flavor.
“You bought a box of French macarons to keep in the bathroom?”
“Well, I have nowhere else to keep them, Trishara.” He gives me a meaningful look, but I completely brush past the point because he smiled at me, and now, he’s offering me treats. What am I supposed to do with myself?
He runs a hand down his face.
“Who did you buy these for, Rafe?”
I take the package, stroking the stiff golden ribbon between my fingers.
“I guess…” He stops, grimacing at the box like it’s a grenade. “I guess I bought them for Hannah.”
“Oh,” I reply as something crumples in my chest. I’m so stupid. His half-naked body. His leg against mine. The smile . I’m searching for signs that don’t exist.
It’s fine. I need them to reconcile. It’s for the best. As soon as Rafe is back with Hannah, all these pointless feelings will take a hike and leave me the hell alone. Everything will return to the orderly places they belong, and I can keep him at a distance where it’s safest.
“I can’t eat these.”
I place the box on the lounger next to Rafe’s hip. I should eat them because they’ll go stale long before he gets them back to Chicago, and why is it so adorable that he doesn’t know that? Macarons are my favorite, and I really, really want to eat them, but there’s a symbolism in eating a present he meant for his currently-ex-but-maybe-soon-to-be-current girlfriend.
“I’ll just call down for more room service.”
I stand, but Rafe wraps a hand around the back of my knee, stilling me. Killing me.
“No,” he says, his touch lingering for an extra beat. He clears his throat and pulls his hand away. “You can eat them.”
He picks up the box and unties the ribbon. “It was stupid. I don’t know why I bought them. I think it’s supposed to be an apology.”
He peels off the gold sticker sealing the box and holds it open.
“An apology?” I ask because I’m deep into this now, I guess.
At first, he doesn’t look at me. His gaze is focused like he’s contemplating drowning himself in the shallow depths of a cardboard box. When he looks up, his eyes are filled with conflict.
“I just never felt a spark,” he says.
“Oh,” I say again, and that earlier crumpling loosens like an unfurling paper ball.
“Our parents are friends,” he continues. “They’ve basically been inseparable since they were in college, and when they both had kids around the same time, they planned our entire future. I resisted it for a long time. We would have been married years ago if they’d had their way, but I wanted to see some of the world first. Do some stuff.”
“Do some other women?” I joke, and he rolls his eyes.
“I’m opening up here, Tris. Do you mind?”
“Sorry,” I say and bite my bottom lip. “But really?”
He gives me a cautious smile, and I’m amazed at how easy this is. Like this is how it’s always been. It’s still making my heart stop every single time. “Okay, yes. I didn’t want to marry the only woman I’d ever been with. Does that make me an asshole?”
I shake my head. “Honestly, it doesn’t. I wouldn’t want that either.”
“Thanks,” he says and there’s warmth in that word, better than all the flannel scarves and vanilla lattes in the entire galaxy.
“Anyway”—I gesture to him—“you were saying.”
“Hannah had always been into us trying things out, and we’ve always had fun as friends. She’s gorgeous, I was about to turn thirty, and…” He breaks off and gives me a strange look as though he was about to say something he shouldn’t before adding, “And what was I resisting for?”
I purse my lips but say nothing.
“So we started dating, and it was fine. She’s sweet and doesn’t take anything too seriously. She’s uncomplicated and has lots of friends and people who love her. She’s always busy and trying something new.”
I lean my chin on a fist and look up at him. “I’m waiting for you to get to the part where any of this makes sense. Does she have a third nipple somewhere? A perpetual rash in an inconvenient place? Is she secretly into whipping you with licorice and calling you Daddy?”
“What?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together. “That is so weirdly specific.”
I shrug. “I read a lot of interesting books.”
Amusement dances in his eyes, and this is so addicting.
“Yes, she’s all those good things, and she’ll be the perfect wife for a million guys. Just not for me.”
I sit up, pressing my palms to my knees, suddenly liking this story much better. I am a terrible person. Despite what I just said about needing them back together, I shouldn’t be rooting for their demise. I shouldn’t care this much.
“Why not?” I have to know. I am dying of curiosity. I need to know why this perfect woman isn’t enough for Rafe Gallagher.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s not something I can put into words. All I know is that it doesn’t feel quite right.” He levels me with a look I can’t interpret. “I want someone who makes me feel a little like I’m… burning in the best kind of way.”
He stops, his chest heaving as if admitting this out loud has cost him something. As if this is the first time he really let himself acknowledge these words.
“But how do you explain that? I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want our friendship to end. We’ve known each other since we were babies. And our families… I don’t want to blow everything up. This will kill my mom. I know I should have broken it off a long time ago, but… I felt pressured to make it work. She deserves better than that, and I can’t give her what she wants.”
He’s still holding the box of macarons, one hand cupped around each end. I take it from him and place it on the chair next to me as he braces his elbows on his knees and looks down at his feet.
“How have you kept it from your parents for so long?” I ask.
He shakes his head and looks up. “My dad is always working, and I’ve had to deflect with my mom. Thankfully, she’s been pretty busy lately, too. I hate deceiving her, and I think she suspects something is up.”
“Is this why you didn’t want to share a room with your dad?”
He rolls his shoulders. “Partly.”
There’s more he isn’t saying, but when he doesn’t elaborate, I continue. “That’s a lot. But surely your family understands if things don’t work out? They had to know it wasn’t a given just because they’re all friends?”
He lets out a dry laugh. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? They’re all smart, successful people who have every moment of their lives planned. I don’t think they ever considered it. This just fits into their vision.”
The waves crash below as we sit in silence. I’m not sure what to say. I’m a little surprised he’s being so raw and honest in my presence.
“I know there are people in the world with far worse problems, and I must sound like such a privileged asshole right now,” he says.
“Rafe,” I interrupt. “It’s okay. I mean, yeah, there are people who have it worse, but you’re allowed to have misgivings about the circumstances of your life, regardless of how they might seem to others.”
He gives me a grateful look that unlocks some rusty, buried cavern in my heart.
“I bought a ring in some kind of last-ditch attempt to convince myself this was what I wanted, but the minute I held it, I knew I could never propose. But she found out and thinks I’m just having cold feet right now. She thinks I’m going to change my mind.” He glances at his phone lying on the chair like it’s a poisoned viper. “She won’t take no for an answer and still shows up at my apartment all the time. I was honestly so relieved to come here just to put some physical distance between us. I told her we’d talk when I get back.”
“And tell her what?”
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I guess the ugly truth, as harsh as it might sound.”
I tilt my head, pick up the box, and hold it out to him. He plucks a macaron and pops it into his mouth, and I gasp.
“What?” he asks.
“You can’t just blindly choose one. That’s sacrilege! You need to consult the piece of paper! What if you just ate caramel, and you don’t like caramel?”
“It wasn’t caramel.”
“What was it?”
He frowns as he chews. “I’m not sure. Something fruity.”
“You see what I mean? Now you’ve thrown off the whole balance of the box.”
He snatches it from my hand and closes his eyes, picking another one and stuffing it in his mouth with a grin. He chews slowly, clearly enjoying my distress. I grab the box, clutching it to my chest like a precious baby lamb.
“ That one was caramel,” he says, and I huff out a laugh.
“Please tell me there’s a lemon one you didn’t recklessly eat.” Peering into the box, I spy a yellow macaron and rescue it, sinking my teeth into the chewy crust.
“Lemon?” he asks, giving me a once-over. “I would have pegged you for a chocolate girl.”
That brings me up short. Why has Rafe ever considered my flavor preference?
“I love both,” I reply, and he nods.
“Good to know.” Then his gaze meets mine. “Thanks for listening. You’re actually easy to talk to.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t seem so surprised. I’m not a total bitch despite what you think.”
“I’ve never thought that,” he says, and it sounds sincere, but I can’t tell if he’s being honest. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Oh. No, I’m not. It’s been a while.”
“How long is a while?”
I think about my answer, worried about revealing my past, but Rafe just opened up, and I’m enjoying this truce too much to let it end.
“A year-ish,” I say tentatively.
“That’s a long time,” he says. He almost looks relieved, but I must be reading that wrong. “Did you swear off men or something?”
I snort. “Not on purpose.”
That earns me a wry smile, and I let out a drawn-out breath. “I went through a bad breakup years ago that sort of scared me off all relationships. He broke my trust in the worst possible way. I tried to start dating again, but I admit I’m having difficulty putting my faith in anyone. I guess I’m looking for someone that makes me feel… safe.”
I blink because it’s like a light just came on. I don’t think I understood that’s what I wanted until I just voiced it out loud.
He focuses his intense gaze on me. “I’m sorry that happened. You deserve to be with someone you trust implicitly.”
This, too, is uttered with such sincerity that some fundamental part of me shifts.
We’re both quiet for a minute until he tips his head and grins.
“Don’t be mad about the macarons, Tris. Would it help if I took my shirt off again?”
I make an offended noise as I pick a macaron from the box and throw it at him.
It bounces off the center of his chest as his laughter, his smile, the brightness in his eyes all begin to chip away at the wall I so carefully and purposefully built around myself.