Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Skye
I burst through the restaurant door and gulp down the evening air like I've been drowning. My hands tremble violently as I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it twice before I manage to type out a message with shaking fingers.
Me: Huge asshole. I just left, be there in a few. Order us some food, I'm starving.
Harper: On it! I'm sorry. Hurry and get here.
I shove my phone back into my purse with such force that I hear something crack—probably just my Chapstick, but at this point, I'm too angry to care. The hotel's only about three blocks from here, and honestly, I need the fresh air to cool me off before I explode into a million frustrated pieces.
That man. That infuriating, gorgeous, terrible man.
When I first walked in and saw him standing there, I almost forgot how to breathe.
Tall—like, ridiculously tall—with shoulders that filled out his expensive suit in a way that should be illegal.
The fabric draped perfectly over his frame, obviously tailored specifically for him, probably costing more than my entire wardrobe.
Dark hair with a little grey sprinkled in, giving him this distinguished look that screamed power and experience and made my stomach flip in ways I didn't want to acknowledge.
And his eyes—intense, almost predatory, the kind that strip you bare without him saying a word, making me feel simultaneously exposed and desperate for more.
Strong jaw, perfect mouth, hands that looked like they could break something or fix everything, with long fingers that I couldn't stop staring at.
I wanted to climb him like a tree right there in the hostess station, and the realization mortifies me.
But then he opened his mouth, and I spent the next thirty minutes in a battle with myself over whether I was turned on or pissed off. My body and brain waging war while I tried desperately to maintain some semblance of composure. In the end, anger won out—thank god.
The things he said to me. The condescension dripping from every syllable.
The way he looked at me like I was some naive little girl who'd wandered into adult territory.
"I will break you in half." His words echo in my head, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine that travels all the way to my toes.
The worst part? Some traitorous part of me wanted to say "please do," and I hate myself for it.
I take another deep breath of cool night air, letting it fill my lungs completely before exhaling slowly. What is wrong with me? The man practically called me a child, insulted me to my face.
But those eyes when he grabbed my wrist... dark and commanding, like he could see past all my defenses and straight to the part of me that responded to his dominance despite my better judgment...
I shake my head violently, my hair whipping around my face. No. Absolutely not. I won't give him the satisfaction of occupying any more space in my thoughts than he already has.
I walk into the hotel lobby, pressing the elevator button repeatedly as if that might make it arrive faster.
When it finally does, I ride up to the seventh floor, trying to focus on literally anything but him.
As I step out, a group of guys—probably mid-twenties, clearly pre-gaming for a night out based on their cologne cloud and exaggerated laughter—pass by on their way to the elevators.
They stare and whisper among themselves, nudging each other, and for a second I wonder why, until one breaks away and falls into step beside me.
"You want to go down to the bar with us and get a drink?" he asks, all confident smile and styled hair that probably took longer to arrange than mine did.
"I can't drink, I'm underage," I say truthfully, and he grins wider, like my honesty is somehow an invitation.
"I won't tell if you won't," he says with a wink that I'm sure works on plenty of girls.
"No thanks. I'm meeting a friend," I reply, clutching my purse a little tighter.
"Well, if you change your mind, we'll be down there all night," he says, his eyes traveling down my body in a way that makes me want to put on a sweater. "You can bring your friend too. The more the merrier."
"Okay, thanks," I say, walking off with absolutely zero intention of meeting them, my pace quickening as I approach our room.
When I get to our door, I use the key card to enter, walk straight to the nearest bed, and face-plant with a dramatic groan that comes from the very depths of my soul. Harper is on me in an instant, the mattress dipping as she sits beside me, her vanilla perfume enveloping me in familiar comfort.
"What happened?" she asks, her hand rubbing soothing circles on my back, instantly making me feel better like she always does.
I roll over, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before launching into the whole sordid tale—his arrogance, his insults, the way he looked at me like I was both a problem and a temptation that he couldn't quite resist. I describe his imposing presence, the electricity I felt when he touched me, and how much I hated myself for responding to him on any level.
By the time I finish, my throat feels raw, and room service has arrived with the burgers and fries Harper ordered, the smell of greasy comfort food filling our room.
"What a complete dick," she says, passing me a plate heaped with food. "Though he sounds hot," she adds with a knowing smirk.
"Irrelevant," I mutter, biting into my burger with perhaps more force than necessary, ketchup squirting out the other end.
We spend the rest of the night vegging out, renting a couple of old movies and cuddling together on the couch, sharing a blanket and occasional commentary.
The encounter gradually fades from the forefront of my mind as Harper's hilarious observations about the terrible special effects make me laugh despite myself.
But even as I drift off to sleep later, those dark, commanding eyes follow me into my dreams.
"Mom!" I call, walking in the back door. "Justin!"
I shut the door behind me and kick off my shoes, then pad across the house in search of my family.
After the disaster of last night, Harper and I slept in and came home today.
Once we got back to our apartment, we both showered and got ready to see our moms for the last time for about three months.
Harper drove us to her house, and I walked the short distance down the street to mine.
We're both staying the night at our respective homes, but Harper's car is already packed with our luggage so we can go directly to the airport in the morning.
"Mom?" I call again when I reach upstairs.
"In my room," she calls back.
I pass by Justin's room where he's lying on his bed, headphones on, completely absorbed in his drawing.
His face carries that intense focus that always makes me smile—when he's in his art zone, the rest of the world disappears.
I continue down the hallway to Mom's room where she's folding laundry, neat piles of clothes arranged on her faded comforter.
"Hey, hey," I say, walking over to her bed and sitting down.
"Hey Hun. Are you all packed and ready to leave in the morning?" she asks, smoothing a hand over one of Justin's t-shirts before adding it to his pile.
"Yep," I say, popping the 'p' sound. "Are you sure it's okay? What if you need help?"
"I'm sure. I'm off work during the summer so I'll be able to be home more, and you more than deserve the vacation. You're kicking butt in college with your straight A's."
"Thanks," I say, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. "Have you heard anything from Dad?"
"No, but I got a lawyer to divorce him and get child support for your brother."
My head snaps up. "You can afford a lawyer?"
"Not really," she says with a small sigh. "But Mary, the science teacher? Her husband is a divorce lawyer. He's doing it, and I can pay what I can here and there."
"Well, that's awesome news," I say, relief washing over me. Finally, some progress.
She smiles. "Yep, every little bit helps. Come on, help me make dinner. We're doing hamburger steaks with mashed potatoes and cheddar broccoli."
"Yummy," I say, getting up.
We spend the next hour in the kitchen cooking with Mom's low country music playing in the background.
The familiar rhythm of working beside her—her chopping vegetables while I mash potatoes, both of us swaying slightly to the music—settles something in me.
For a little while, I can forget about the disaster of last night, forget about the financial pressure, forget about everything except the comforting smell of home cooking and the sound of my mother humming along to the radio.
After everything is ready, I go upstairs to get Justin.
"Hey turd, dinner's done," I say, pulling his headphones off.
I notice the drawing he's working on—a big city with cars and buses on the road, people walking on the sidewalk, and what looks like a homeless guy sitting with his dog.
The detail is incredible, each face containing its own story, each building with its own personality.
"This is amazing," I tell him honestly.
"Thanks," he says, getting up and stretching. "I'm starving. What's for dinner?"
As we sit down at the table, I notice Mom pouring two glasses of red wine, setting them in front of our plates with a small smile. It's a rare treat—we don't often drink alcohol—and the gesture feels like a tiny celebration of my impending trip.
"I want a glass," Justin says, eyeing our wine with curiosity.
Mom laughs, the sound warm and familiar. "You're too young."
"So is Skye," he points out, completely serious.
"Yes, but she's an adult. You're not," Mom counters, serving the hamburger steaks onto our plates.
I take a small sip, the wine a bit too dry for my taste but not terrible. "You won't like it anyway," I tell him, knowing his preference for sweet drinks.
"Let me see," he insists.
Mom nods her permission, so I hand him my glass. Justin examines it with scientific precision, first smelling it carefully like he's seen people do in movies, then taking a tiny experimental sip. His face contorts almost immediately as he hands the glass back to me.
"Yuck," he declares after swallowing with visible effort. "That's disgusting." He grabs his milk and chugs it down like an antidote.
Mom and I both burst into laughter at his dramatic reaction.
"I told you," I say through my giggles, watching him continue to grimace.
We settle into our meal, the hamburger steaks perfectly seasoned and the potatoes creamy. Looking at Justin's animated face as he describes his latest dinosaur documentary, I feel a pang of how much I'll miss this. Three months suddenly seems so long.
"Hey, you should sell your art online somewhere," I say, changing the subject. "You're really good. You could make a living with it."
Justin shakes his head, cutting another piece of meat. "Nah, it's for fun. I want to be a paleontologist."
"I know," I say, nudging his foot under the table. "But while you're still in school, you could do it. Extra money never hurts."
He considers this for a moment, taking another bite. "I'll think about it," he finally says.
"I'm going to miss you guys this summer," I confess, the reality of tomorrow's departure hitting me. "You better call me a lot."
"We will," Mom promises, reaching across to squeeze my hand.
"Yeah, we can FaceTime," Justin agrees, brightening at the idea of technology.
"Yeah, we can do that," I say, already imagining their faces on my screen while I'm across the country.
After we finish eating and clear the dishes, Mom turns to us. "You guys want to watch a movie?"
"Only if there's ice cream," I say instantly.
At the exact same moment, Justin declares, "Only if I can pick the movie."
Mom laughs, the lines around her eyes crinkling. "Yes and yes," she answers, pulling open the freezer to reveal a half-gallon of vanilla.
We spend the rest of the night watching Annabelle—Justin's latest horror film obsession—and eating ice cream sundaes loaded with chocolate syrup and the last of the crushed peanuts.
Justin sits between Mom and me on our worn couch, occasionally hiding his face during the scariest parts even though he's seen the movie three times already.
Mom falls asleep before the climax, her head tilted back against the cushions, and I grab the throw blanket to cover her.
It's the perfect last night with them before I leave for the summer—simple, comfortable, and filled with the kind of ordinary love that I'll carry with me across the country.