Chapter Fifteen
W hen I awake, the bed is empty. Sunlight filters around the edges of the slatted blinds, and I sit up, attempting to quell a flare of disappointment at finding myself alone. A moment later, I hear Rafe through the cracked door on the end of a phone call.
I hesitate. I should probably give him some privacy. But I also kick the blankets off and tiptoe closer on silent feet across the cool white tiles. From my narrow vantage point, I see he’s pacing the living room, his phone pressed to his ear. I’m officially Rafe’s creepy stalker.
There’s no anger in his voice, but there’s a strained set to his shoulders and a withered defeat in his tone. “Hannah, we’ve been over this.”
I go completely still. I shouldn’t be listening. This is none of my business, but a sick part of me needs to know. Maybe a small part of me understands that Rafe being free and available means I’ll be forced to confront the fears I’ve been clinging to for years. Will I ever be ready for a relationship again? What about with someone I work with? Would he also betray me if things went wrong? I’m not sure if I can handle that again.
A wave of nausea spirals straight to my feet.
It would be safer if Rafe got back together with Hannah. For me.
And if not, I’ll have no choice but to consider that other Rafe who could easily smash my heart into splinters. The Rafe who comforted me last night and held my hand and chose to stay with me instead of abandoning me. The Rafe I pushed away, but who always existed in my periphery like the moon circling the earth.
But maybe I have nothing to worry about. Years ago, I thought he was flirting with me, and then he started dating someone else. Until two days ago, he’d never even smiled at me. He can barely tolerate me.
All we’ve ever done is argue, and maybe I’m the only one who considers that a form of foreplay. I recall the disagreement we got into a few months ago because we couldn’t decide on the calculation of a pressure vessel.
He’s just trying to keep the peace, given our proximity. The blankets and the apology and defending me against Evan—it turns out Rafe is simply a better person than I ever gave him credit for.
Rafe huffs out a sound of irritation. He storms across the suite and stuffs his feet into his gym shoes lying by the door. He slams it behind him, cutting off his voice and leaving an abrupt, echoing silence.
I wait, watching the door, wondering if he’s coming back. After a minute, I steal into the kitchen and notice a cloche-covered plate on the counter. The remnants of a meal sit on another plate next to it. I lift the lid to find a burger and fries with little silver cups of both ketchup and mayo nestled on the side. Something in my stomach flutters.
Standing at the counter, I scarf the entire thing down, one ear peeled for Rafe’s return.
Rain has started falling again, so I decide to go for a jog on the treadmill. I change into gym clothes and tie on my shoes, which I managed to salvage from the mud pit.
When I leave the suite, the hallway is empty. I wonder where Rafe has gone.
A few minutes later, I emerge at the gym level to find it deserted. Everyone is probably resting after the storm, but I have too much pent-up energy pooling along my nerves.
I head for the bank of treadmills, stepping onto one and pressing a few buttons. It sings to life with flashing lights. A powerful blast of air-conditioning pebbles my skin as I set my water bottle in the holder and punch a few more buttons on the display. I set it for sixty minutes before the belt whirrs to life.
Putting in my earphones, I break into a slow jog as it speeds up. I crank up the volume on my “Running for Your Life” playlist, preferring it to be as loud as reasonably possible to help lose myself in the rhythm. Plus, it prevents anyone from talking to me.
I’m twenty minutes into my run, sweat breaking out on my forehead, when a presence appears next to me. I shoot a dirty look to whoever chose the machine next to mine when a dozen others sit empty.
It’s Rafe.
He’s changed into snug black shorts and a sleeveless top that hugs his torso in all the right ways. Valleys of shadows and light play against the dips and curves of his arms and his face.
My obsession that’s not an obsession has never been more obsessive.
I tear my gaze away, focusing on the view outside.
I sense his movements. His eyes on me. He drops his water bottle in the holder and punches some buttons as his treadmill speeds up.
His pace kicks up, and I feel him peering over at my dashboard. I narrow my eyes as he smirks and very deliberately increases the pace on his machine so he’s going 0.1 miles per hour faster.
I think not.
I jab the button, upping my tempo just above his. He lets me run there for a minute as I steal glances at his profile. After a moment, he pointedly increases his speed again.
Now I’m getting annoyed. I should just stop. This is so dumb. I have nothing to prove. I could run faster if I wanted to. I don’t need his validation. But he is so ridiculously smug that I fantasize about a roundhouse kick to his ego.
Despite my annoyance, there’s something weirdly calming about competing with him in a pointless battle of wills. It’s our safe place. Our normal. It helps settle all these bizarre new feelings that surfaced last night.
So, I lean into it.
A feral noise tears from my throat, and I increase my speed again.
But this is hardly fair. Rafe descended from giants and has legs like a giraffe. Of course he’s faster, but I can’t let him win. Not again. Today, Daddy’s connections won’t help him.
He increases his speed, and I match him with a glare, daring him to do his worst.
That wins me the twist of a smile that would make the Joker look like Mary Poppins. With fifteen minutes left on my clock, sweat is pouring off me in rivulets. It slides down my face and down my back. My chest is tight, and I really want to stop. This is brutal. But I can’t.
We keep running, paces matched, my breath practically fogging the air. A stitch forms in my side, stabbing me with fiery lashes. I press my hand against it, willing myself through the pain.
With a few minutes left, I up my speed one more time. Who needs lungs, anyway? This is the home stretch, and wings sprout from my ankles as I ascend to the plateau of the runner’s high.
Rafe maintains his pace, watching me before he turns forward again.
My smile is smug as I keep running, my heart about to liquefy in my chest. I’m this close to collapsing when a miracle parts the heavens, and my treadmill suddenly slows, easing me into the cooldown. I want to melt into a puddle, but I take a deep breath and plant my hands on my hips for balance. A knifing ache stitches in my side, but I resist the urge to massage it as the treadmill slows to a stop.
I uncap my water and drink half the bottle as Rafe continues his pace. With an eyebrow raised, I give him my most withering smile before I hop off the machine, making my way for the changing rooms.
As soon as the door closes, I collapse against the wall, bending over as I gasp for air and clutch at my side. I drag myself to the bench, where I lie panting for several minutes.
Dammit. Why did I let myself get caught up in his stupid game? As my racing heart slows and the feeling returns in my limbs, I do allow myself an inward smile.
After chugging back another bottle of water, I’m recovered enough to make it back upstairs. My legs are shaky and rubbery as I pass through the gym, noting Rafe is no longer on the treadmill.
I head to the elevator and up to our room to take a shower.
When I emerge, Rafe has returned, also freshly showered and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’s sitting on the balcony with a beer open on the table beside him. I lie on the other chair and fold my hands over my stomach. I refuse to let him see how much he drained me.
“I showered downstairs,” he says.
I look over, searching for some sign of his earlier conversation with Hannah, finding it written in the lines of his face as he turns to study the horizon.
“You okay?” I ask.
He turns to look at me. “Yeah, why?”
I shrug. “No reason.”
We sit in silence, accompanied by the crashing sounds of the sea.
He picks up his beer and points it towards me, offering me a sip. I shake my head because I’ve never liked the taste. He tips his head and takes a long gulp. I watch the line of his throat as he swallows, noting how his bicep swells against the sleeve of his shirt.
“How are your legs?” he asks, his gaze wandering over my lower half, spreading over me like molten sugar. I resist the urge to tuck them away.
“Fine,” I lie. They feel like rubber, and my hamstrings are already tightening, an ache settling in my quads. “Yours?”
“Never better,” he replies coolly, but then he winces as he shifts.
My self-satisfaction knows no bounds.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to his lap. It looks like a sketchbook.
“Nothing.” He flips it over and throws me an ominous look. “None of your business.”
If he thinks I’m letting that go, he’s never met me.
“Let me see,” I say, holding out my hand and curling my fingers in a give-it-here gesture. I’m sure I caught the lines of a sketch. Rafe draws ?
“No,” he says, tilting the book away from me.
“Ra-a-fe,” I say, affecting my most authoritative voice, drawing out his name.
He snorts. “You can’t boss me around.”
He attempts a stern look, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching up.
“Look over there!” I shout, pointing off in the distance, and he tips his head towards me and scoffs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. That was so sad.”
I flatten my lips. It really was.
I begin to stand, and he stuffs the book behind him. So, I pretend that my right knee buckles, crying out as I catch myself on the edge of his lounger. It’s only a partial feint because, holy shit, are my legs sore.
“Are you okay?” Rafe leans forward and grabs my wrist.
I am dirtier than a cafeteria food fight, but I wince, committing to the bit. I reach around him and snatch the sketchbook.
“Aha!” I hold it over my head and jump, grimacing because that actually hurts.
I retreat as Rafe stands and backs me against the railing.
“Don’t move,” I say, clutching the book against my chest and holding my hand out towards him. “Take another step, and I’ll throw it over the railing.”
I’m the worst right now, but curiosity is eating me alive.
He stops, balling his hands into fists.
“Tris,” he says, a warning in his voice that gives me a sick little thrill. “Give me that.”
“I will,” I say. “I just want to have a look.”
I hesitate, searching his face, trying to determine how upset he is. If he really wants me to stop, I will. But he doesn’t move; he just watches me before his chin dips in the barest nod of acquiescence.
I flip open the book and inhale a surprised gasp.
It’s the view from our balcony sketched out in various shades of grey, and it’s absolutely breathtaking.
The light and the details are perfect—an unblemished mirror of the horizon.
I look up and sense him bracing himself for a blow, but I have no intention of hurting him. I hate that it’s what he expects.
“This is incredible,” I say, flipping to the next page, revealing more scenes of the beach. Stills of flowers and glasses on tables, water beading on their surfaces. There are sketches of places I recognize from back home, each more gorgeous and lifelike than the last. There are hands and eyes and pieces of people. Lips and hair and noses. There are even several pages of desserts—towering cakes and stunning constructions pieced together with macarons and whipped cream. I wonder what inspired them.
“These are amazing. You’re incredibly talented.”
I look up again at him, and his shoulders drop with a relieved exhale. “You think so?”
I furrow my brows. “Of course. Surely you know how good these are?”
He shrugs. “It’s just a silly hobby. Something I do when I’ve got shit on my mind.”
I stop on an image of a tree in a park, the leaves so lifelike it feels like I could pick them off from the page. “Well, if this is just a hobby, you’re amazing at it.”
I keep flipping, and my breath catches again as I open a portrait of Hannah. I blink.
“That’s old,” he says in a way that sounds like he’s explaining himself. “I did that a long time ago.” I shake my head. Who am I to question drawings of his ex-girlfriend?
I keep flipping and then I nearly drop the book.
My heart stops, stutters, takes a moment to catch up.
There’s a sketch of me. Here. Sitting on this balcony, looking out at the water, a pensive look on my face. He’s captured me so perfectly that the air in my chest twists and bends in on itself.
He takes a step closer, hovering in my space.
“I, uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I hope you don’t mind.” I flip the page again and find another drawing of me, but it’s from back home. I’m at my desk, one shoe kicked off, a pen tucked into a makeshift bun. I recognize the dress I bought a couple of months ago.
“Why are you drawing pictures of me?” I ask, my voice hushed to a dumbfounded whisper.
Our eyes meet, and the silence between us grows thick and amorphous, ballooning into life-altering proportions.
His brown eyes glow like fall leaves drenched in sunlight, and his lips part ever so slightly. But then a curtain falls over his expression, and he snatches the book from my hands.
“No reason,” he says. “I draw what’s around me.” He stomps into the suite, but I’m not done here. I follow him inside, close on his heels like a misbehaving puppy. “What?” he snaps. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what? You’re the one drawing pictures of me. Can I see it again? Are there more?”
“No. I told you, it’s nothing. People are hard. I was practicing. It’s nothing. I draw random people all the time.”
“Like who?” I cross my arms over my chest, my limbs weak and rubbery for an entirely different reason now. I can’t leave this alone.
He throws up his hands. “I don’t know. Margaret Thatcher.”
I almost choke on my tongue. “Margaret Thatcher ?”
He lets out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was the first name that came into my head.”
“So you draw me, your girlfriend, and dead female politicians?”
“No, I… she’s not my girlfriend.” He makes a noise of frustration and begins walking away.
“How was Margaret Thatcher the first name that popped into your head? Do I remind you of an old white lady?”
I continue following him, and he whirls on me.
“No! Of course, you don’t. I was just—I don’t know, okay? Leave me alone.”
His glower is as dark as a midnight sky, and his evil glare is charged to full capacity. He stands before me, towering like a mountain, and the bright flash in his gaze makes my heart stumble.
He takes another small step, moving so close that I’m drowning in the radiant heat of his body. My pulse races, and I go fluttery and hot. My breath saws through my chest like a nest of burrs.
The tension thickens, growing solid, wrapping itself around my hips and chest and limbs. My mouth parts in anticipation because I get the strangest sense that he’s about to kiss me.
And I want it. I want it.
Then he blinks, and his lip curls and my heart sags against my ribs, leaking between the spaces.
“Just leave me alone,” he snarls. “Don’t touch my things again.”
Then he wrenches open the door to the hallway and slams it behind him.