“Sorry for the attitude,” I tell the man. “Long day.”
“I understand,” he says, warmth returning to his voice just as warmth returns to Poppy’s eyes. “Let me just get you two the room key.”
“Perfect,” Poppy tells him. “Thank you.”
We wait for the man to finish the check-in process, and I exhale slowly, trying to channel some calm I don’t feel.
I really wanted some space. Some time to unwind, recharge, turn my head off, and?—
Okay, I wanted to message Grace. I wanted to chat with the one person who gets me without having to hide my screen or justify tuning everything else out.
All day, the idea of messaging Grace has kept me going, and now, there’s no way I can do that. Not when I’ll be stuck sharing a room with Poppy.
When she signs the last form and hands it back to the clerk, she catches my eye. Then she gives a little shrug and a soft smile that sayswhat can you do?
Maybe being stuck with her won’t be the worst thing in the world.
CHAPTER TEN
POPPY
Being stuck in the same room with Ollie Fletcher is the worst thing in the world.
The room is painted a soft terracotta that’s determined to be warm and inviting. The crisp pale bedspread is tucked in that way only a professional can do (or at least that Ican’t). The dark wood headboard shines like it’s been polished just for us.
And there it is: a single queen bed.
Center stage.
There’s a dresser with a flat-screen TV perched on top, an old-fashioned armchair in the corner, and a bathroom through a doorway that gleams like it’s recently scrubbed within an inch of its life. It’s nice. Clean. Dreadfully cozy.
But all I can see is that bed.
The bed is too big to ignore, the room too small to even hint at another option.
And Ollie and I are just standing there, staring at it.
“It’ll be fine,” I say with a forced smile. “Do you want to shower?”
“What?” The word explodes out of his mouth.
I rear back, confused. “Uh, shower? Do you want to shower first? I can’t sleep until I’ve washed the airport and rental car off me, but I need to stretch after that drive.”
“Oh, right,” he says, like he didn’t just overreact to the most normal question in the world. His cheeks are so red, I can see it through his scruff. “Yeah, I’ll go first.”
We put down our bags, and I drop to the floor. Maybe that’s gross—hotel carpets and all—but it looks cleaner than your usual hotel … and it can’t be worse than an airport or rental car. As I stretch, I watch Fletch kick off his shoes and set down his coat and wallet, and I think about why he got so worked up about me asking if he wanted to shower …
OH.
OH!
He thought I was asking him to?—
I wasn’t! It’s so obvious that I wasn’t. But if he thought that—even for a second!—maybe it wasn’tthatobvious.
And okay, we’ve had a couple of hand-grazing moments that haven’t been torture, and yes, when he saved us from going off the road earlier, his protective competence was super attractive, and yes, he’s objectively beautiful, when he’s not scowling, and maybe also when heisscowling but …
Have I been giving off shower vibes??
