24. Broken Dreams of Loaded Fries
Chapter twenty-four
Broken Dreams of Loaded Fries
Jackknifing upright, I claw for air through the cloth that covers my mouth—
Oh.
Not a cloth. Just my hair, clumped and messy where I stumbled out of the bath, accompanied by a healthy dose of drool to attach it to my face.
Sexy.
Relieved that nobody’s here to witness me fighting my imaginary intruder, I take in the darkened room. A faint yellow glow offers a sliver of light, courtesy of the city nightscape beyond.
Huh. Reaching for my phone, I wipe my crusty eyes and blink hazily at the screen.
A whole lot of missed messages greet me. Mostly from an increasingly irritated Liam. Slowly releasing my fingers, I let my phone tumble back down onto the bed next to where I seem to have taken an accidental nap. “Whoops.”
Too late to call him back anyway. The clock beside my bed shows it’s after eleven. Everyone will be in bed by now in prep for an early start at the Chicago rink tomorrow.
What a shame.
I pluck the room service menu from the bedside table with a hum of excitement. My stomach rumbles back, adding some lovely bass as I run my finger down the offerings and tap my finger against the loaded fries options.
Load me the fuck up. I’m starving.
Weirdly buoyant, I grab the in-room phone and tap out the number for the room service gremlins to deliver an absolute feast. No more visits until tomorrow at least, and my stomach flips at the thought before I shove it away.
Nobody is ruining my fries and wine—
Wait. I pull back the phone to look at it before holding it to my ear again.
Nothing. Nada. No dialing tone greets me, no dulcet tones asking if I want extra cheese, or garlic sauce, or peppercorn. Not a sniff of a side of nachos.
The fuck?
I topple off the bed. Whimpering in desperation, I follow the phone cord all the way back to the wall.
Plugged in, switched on. But impossibly, infuriatingly, not working.
I stare at the phone in horror, and it glimmers back in all its shiny plastic glory, mocking me in my hour of need.
My stomach grumbles again. It’s been a long time since I choked through my hairy kiwi at breakfast. Jonas’s slack jaw as he watched his scent match delicately pick over a plate of melon balls didn’t help.
It was like a golden retriever watching a piece of cheese dangle in mid-air.
A strand of dribble wouldn’t have surprised me.
The jokes I could have made had burned against my tongue, fighting against Liam’s commands and unfortunately winning.
Giving up on the phone option, I rest back on my thighs and consider my options.
If the fries will not come to Rosie, then Rosie will go to the fries.
Yanking on a pair of yoga pants that’ll cope with the bloated waistline I intend to have in the very near future and opting for one of Carter’s hoodies that I snuck into my bag, I scrape my half-dried frizz into a ball and pray nobody spots me in my hunt.
Yanking my bedroom door open, I stand awkwardly in the doorway.
This is… ridiculous. I don’t need permission to go downstairs and find something to eat.
My stomach rumbles at me in agreement. Turning away from Liam’s door with clenched hands, I make a run for the elevator. Once I’m safely ensconced inside, watching each floor light up as I descend down to the lobby, some of the tension seeps from my shoulders.
This has nothing to do with Lauren, or our pack.
So why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?
I rub my sweating hands against my pants and bury my hands under my armpits. The lobby feels like I’m making an escape attempt from a group of masked kidnappers. Keeping to the edges, my head stays down as I scuttle for the bar like Oliver on my way to beg for gruel.
“Hi!” I draw the attention of a smartly-dressed worker with a tap. He looks over my outfit with horrified politeness. “Could I have a menu, please?”
He slides it my way with a single finger, and I snatch it up. “And a large glass of merlot, thanks.”
“Late night snack?” A voice rumbles.
I expire on the spot.
No.
This cannot be happening. The world is not that cruel. I lower my menu enough to take a quick look.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss.
The barman looks between us like he’s contemplating calling security. At the other end of the bar, Boone leans his elbows on the gleaming glass and smirks. “Midwest swing, remember?”
“Ours,” I snarl. “Not yours.”
He shrugs. His tailored white shirt hugs his chest, open at the neck and revealing a hint of curling dark script covering the muscle beneath. “We have the Cubs on Thursday. Flew in a day early. Navarro has family here.”
I shrivel back into Carter’s sweatshirt, suddenly more than aware that I look like an escaped convict. I hate that I hate it. “Stalker.”
“I was here first.” His grin grows, and I turn back to the menu, trying to blank him out. “Put her order on our tab.”
I think the fuck not. “No, thank you.”
Our barman looks like he wants to disappear as he places my wine down.
“Come on, Ragdoll.” Boone taunts me in a low voice. “Trying to be nice here. Besides, a bowl of fries won’t break the bank.”
I purse my lips, considering as I stare down at the menu. “Fine.”
He asked for it. “I'll take the bacon and halloumi loaded fries, the chicken loaded fries, the brisket loaded fries, the chili loaded fries, the cheesy loaded fries, the spicy loaded fries, and the truffle loaded fries. Oh—and a portion of onion rings, mozzarella sticks, and the poppers. Uh, better add some garlic mushrooms too.”
Smiling serenely, I close my menu and hand it to the gawping barman. “And a dip tray. Two, actually. Thank you.”
Damn. Should’ve asked for the lava cake, too.
Instead of annoyance, I get a deep rumble of laughter that prickles at the heaviness in my chest. “You missed the garlic breadsticks. Add those, too. And give her the rest of the wine.”
Well, then. Looks like I’m heading for a party back in my room. I swipe the wine with relish and a begrudging nod in his direction. “Thanks.”
May Carter never find out about this.
“Pleasure’s mine.” The air changes, and when I look up, he’s only a foot away. “Any reason you’re sitting down here on your own?”
“What? No.” I toss my hair, belatedly remembering my ragged little bun. It flops awkwardly around on the back of my head. Not exactly the taunting powerhouse I was going for. “My phone in my room’s not working.”
A burst of laughter rings out, and I glance to the group in the corner. “You should get back.”
“You should join us.” My head jerks up. Boone’s eyes are dark. He doesn’t look like he’s joking, and that’s a joke in itself. “It’s only pack.”
“Ha. Not happening.” I hoist myself onto a bar stool. “Gonna sit here and work my way through the world challenge for fry eating.”
The rest of the bar is empty, save for a businessman murmuring away into an earpiece in the opposite corner. At the low screech of a stool dragging across the dark floor, my head twists. “What are you doing?”
“Joining you.” Boone settles himself onto a stool next to me. “Can’t let you go for a world record all by yourself. You’ll need a witness to your glory.”
“Uh, no.” I point to his pack. “Shoo. Off you pop.”
He leans back and folds his arms, completely relaxed and ignoring my outrage. “How’s your season going?”
I snatch up my wine and take a gulp. “I am not doing this with you.”
“What?” His eyes glitter. “Catching up with an old friend?”
The pang of hurt feels familiar, though it’s been a long time. “We’re not friends, Mercer. Go back to your own pack. Bribery doesn’t work on me.”
I was aiming for sharp, but a flash of the old hurt seeps through.
Boone’s throat bobs. I don’t want to hear whatever excuse he’s planning to give me, interrupting before he can say anything. “And don’t lie to me. You never did before.”
“Ro—”
“Did you get approached for an interview with Valerie Adams?” I interrupt again.
Boone’s eyebrows slide up. “No. Why?”
I turn back to my wine. “She wanted to talk to me and Carter about our sad little childhoods. I wondered if they’d dug something new up on us.”
My fingers tap against the stem of my glass. “Or someone spoke to them.”
“I would never.” Boone leans forward, the words sharp. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him, only a few inches separating us. Solid, and warm. So familiar that I let myself breathe in, just to remember. “Seriously, Rosie. I would never do that to you.”
Studying him, I look for the lie.
He looks different. Harder. The softness in his jaw has given way to stark, sculpted lines, his messy hair cut back and tidier. His eyes travel over me in return, and I wonder what differences he sees. The tightness at the corner of his eyes suggests there might be a few.
I look away. “Why did you leave?”
I’ve never asked him. Never had the chance to, and when I did, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. As soon as the words leave my mouth, low and quivering and pathetic, I want to sweep them up and yank them back where he can’t hear them.
Boone’s tanned skin is sallow when I look at him. We stare at each other.
Fuck.
“You know what?” Huffing out a dry laugh, I scrub my hands over my face. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”
Are a few plates of fries really worth this discussion?
More laughter sounds from the table behind us. I fling myself from the stool, suddenly desperate to escape whatever he’s going to say.
Nothing good ever comes from late-night conversations, and I have enough heartache without choosing to add to it like a masochist.
Boone follows a half-step behind as I head for his pack. His hand is too slow to grab my arm. “Ragdoll, wait.”
Hard nope. I storm up to the table.
Didn’t really think this through, did you, Johnson?
The alphas turn to me, expressions ranging from curiosity to amusement as I rock back on my heels, suddenly certain that I’ve made what can only be described as a Very Bad Decision.
“Well, now,” Mackenzie stands, his words teasing. “Enemy intruder in the ranks. Battle plans away, everyone.”