Chapter 24
Inotice everything.
I notice the way Carter steps into the room and immediately starts evaluating it as if he's conducting a safety or cleanliness inspection.
I notice the way his gaze lands on the bed. Then immediately leaves the bed. Then comes back to the bed. Then leaves again.
Subtle as a fireworks display.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I did book this room weeks ago. I did know it had one bed. And no, I didn't expect to be sharing it with the man currently pretending furniture isn't affecting him emotionally.
Life is full of surprises.
I kick off my shoes and flop backward onto the mattress. The thing practically swallows me whole. "Wow." I bounce once. Twice. "This is a ridiculous amount of bed."
Carter's eyes narrow. "That's your first observation?"
"No." I spread my arms wider. "My first observation was that the wallpaper is ugly. This is my second."
He shakes his head, but I catch the corner of a smile. Progress.
I sit up and pat the mattress. "It passes inspection."
"I wasn't aware you were qualified."
"I'm qualified in many things."
Carter makes a noise that lives somewhere between a choke and a prayer.
There’s no hiding my grin. When I sit up, I dial it back—just enough.
Three months ago, Carter would've been planning an escape route.
Now he's standing in our hotel room trying very hard to act normal about the fact that we're sharing a weekend.
Honestly? I find it kind of adorable.
"Hey," I say lightly. "If this is a problem, we can set rules."
His dark eyes are cautious, asking a question he’s too polite to phrase.
"Rules," he repeats.
"Mm-hmm." I shrug. "Shared space. Big day tomorrow. A truly heroic amount of peens."
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Point is," I continue, "we don’t have to make this A Thing.
" It takes balls to say that as my sexiest underwear are strewn across the comforter.
The words hang there as I watch him wrestle with them.
"But," I add, because I’m incapable of leaving well enough alone, "if it accidentally becomes a thing… I promise not to make it weird."
That’s when he swallows.
Oh. Noted.
I pull out a stack of shirts and start hanging them in the closet. Behind me, Carter finally drops his duffel onto the luggage rack. A small victory. Then another. He takes off his jacket.
"Look at you," I say. "Settling in."
"Don't narrate me."
"I narrate everything."
"I know."
There's no irritation in it. Just familiarity. And for some reason that lands harder than flirting ever could.
I smile to myself and grab my toiletry bag. "I'm taking a shower."
"Okay."
I head for the bathroom, then pause at the door. "Oh, and Carter?"
He looks up.
"If you build a pillow wall down the middle of the bed, I'm telling everyone."
For one glorious second, he looks horrified. Then he points at me. "Don't start."
I know Carter is the kind of suppressed gay that will turn into an animal when he’s feeling himself… given all the right conditions—Lighting, confidence, temptation, and yes, alcohol. But it’s fun to tease.
At the door, I glance back. We lock eyes, and that quiet, vibrating tension neither of us is pretending doesn’t exist anymore hums between us.
"Try not to miss me." Then I close the door, and everything goes quiet in the loudest possible way.
The shower kicks on. Steam blooms under the bathroom door. I stand there for a second longer than necessary, letting the water heat, allowing the moment to stretch until it’s almost unbearable—until I can feel Carter on the other side of the door pretending not to listen.
He is absolutely listening. He’s probably wondering if I’m going to jack off. That’s what I’d be wondering if it were me on the other side of the door.
I keep it brief. Respectable. When I step back out, towel slung low on my hips, hair damp, I clock him instantly—perched on the edge of the armchair, posture stiffer than a starched shirt.
He totally ran over there a second before I opened the door!
I stand before the mirror and run my hands through my wet hair, making sure to show off the flex in my back and biceps. Carter's attention flickers in my direction before returning to the view outside. The man has all the subtlety of a burglar hiding behind a floor lamp.
"You’re quiet."
His gaze shifts back to me. "So are you."
"That's because I was showering."
The room settles around us with an awareness that keeps showing up whenever we're alone together. I glance over. He's still sitting ramrod straight, hands clasped loosely between his knees as if he's waiting for an interview to begin.
"Carter."
"What?"
"You look nervous."
His eyebrows lift. "I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I've spent the last ten years in boardrooms."
"And yet a hotel room is what's taking you down."
His mouth twitches.
I cross the room and lean against the desk instead of crowding him. Close enough to talk, but far enough that he doesn't feel cornered.
"This is the part where we either pretend we’re fine… or we admit this is getting stupid. We're supposed to be having fun, remember?"
He studies me for a second. "I am having fun."
The answer catches me off guard because he's serious. Something warm settles in my chest. "Good."
His expression eases. The tension leaves his shoulders a little at a time. And that’s when I realize what I'm actually looking at.
He’s not panicking. This is anticipation.
Carter Reed doesn't know how to be excited about something without acting like he's preparing for impact.
It's ridiculously endearing.
I smile. "Well, that's adorable."
His eyes narrow. "There he is."
"There who is?"
"The menace."
A grin pulls at my lips. "Now I'm fully unpacked."
I turn to grab pants, letting my towel drop to the floor. There’s no chance he isn’t ogling my bare ass right now. None. I give it a little flex and shimmy for his benefit. Call it an advertisement for later this evening.
Carter makes a sound behind me. Not a word. Not even a real noise. Just—air catching, as if his lungs forgot their job for a second.
I snicker into the open drawer.
"You okay back there?" I ask sweetly, stepping into a navy blue thong and dragging on my jeans at an unhurried pace. I let them sit low on my hips.
"I’m fine," he says too fast.
Which is how I know he absolutely is not.
Turning, I button them slowly, watching him pretend to be very interested in the view out the window. His shoulders are tight. His jaw is clenched. He looks like a man trying not to think about something he is thinking about very hard.
Oh, this is fun!
"Oh good. For a second I thought you were having a medical event."
Carter laughs finally, and allows himself to take me in fully, eyes sparking with heat as they travel over my bare chest and stomach.
I toss him a wink and reach for my shirt. "If it helps, this is me behaving."
He snorts before he can stop himself, then shakes his head. "We’re going to be late."
"Relax. Authors are never on time. It ruins the mystique."
I tug the shirt over my head, smoothing it down, then grab my jacket. When I turn back, his eyes are fixed on me. "Ready?"
His gaze drops to my shirt, and he barks out a laugh. "You're actually wearing that?"
I glance down at the hot pink lettering. GAY MEN DO IT BETTER.
"I paid good money for this shirt."
"That's somehow more concerning."
I dine on his scandalized expression. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"It sounded like one."
Carter shakes his head and reaches for his room key. I fall into step beside him.
His mouth twitches as he fights a smile. "I don’t know whether to be impressed or deeply concerned."
"Both," I say cheerfully. "You should always be both where I’m involved."
We step onto the empty elevator, and Carter glances at me. Then at my shirt. Then immediately away again.
"You're still staring at it."
"It's distracting."
"It's a T-shirt."
"It's hot pink."
"It's educational."
"It says gay men do it better."
"Research-backed claim."
He actually laughs. A real one. Not the reluctant little exhale he tries to pass off as amusement.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Neither of us moves immediately. Carter gestures toward the lobby.
"After you."
I step out first. A second later, his hand lands briefly at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. The touch lasts less than a second, just enough to promise something later.
The meet-and-greet takes over half the hotel lobby. Authors. Narrators. Readers. Bloggers. Influencers. It's chaos. Beautiful, glorious chaos.
Carter lasts twelve minutes before someone mistakes him for security. I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my complimentary iced tea.
"I don't look like security."
The woman blinks. "You absolutely do."
I don't help. Mostly because she's right. He’s dressed in black pants, a charcoal Polo, and a black jacket.
He spends the rest of the evening being adopted by various authors who need someone tall to reach things, carry things, or glare at technology until it behaves.
Turns out Carter's version of mingling is standing quietly until someone asks for help. Then suddenly he's fixing badge printers and locating extension cords and becoming strangely popular.
It's honestly kind of hot.
By dinner, I've lost track of how many people have told me they like him. One author hugs him goodbye. Another asks if he's single. Carter looks horrified both times.
I enjoy myself immensely.
The restaurant downstairs is crowded and loud, and somehow we end up spending two hours there anyway, talking, laughing, and stealing food off each other's plates like we've been doing this for years.
By the time we finally make it back to the elevators, the lobby has thinned out. The day settles over us in a warm, pleasant haze.
I have the strange realization that I've spent nearly twelve straight hours with him and somehow don't feel remotely tired of his company. And I’m almost positive he would say the same about me.