Not after it’s become crystal fucking clear that I am still in love with Jessica Carrington.
Chapter Fifteen
Jess
Getting dressed after the massage is torture. My skin is flushed and tingling, the imprint of Nick’s skin on mine still burning. I’m by myself in a locker room; taking my robe off shouldn’t be arousing, and yet the feel of the fabric sliding over my skin is enough to send a shiver racing down my spine.
My head is as full of flurries as the blizzard still raging outside. I don’t know what to think, much less what to feel after the last hour.
Nick regrets the ending, so he says. But I don’t have much clarity as to what that actually means. The way he ended it, or the fact that he ended it at all? And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Does that mean he wants to get back together? I flash back to what he said the other night at dinner, that his happy ending was destroyed. By whom? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.
And does it really matter? Will it make a difference if I discover Nick really does regret breaking up with me?
Will it make a difference if I find out he might want to explore getting back together?
Surely this shiver, zinging through every one of my veins and leaving my skin all tingly, can be chalked up to nothing short of horror at the thought of giving Nick and me another chance.
I peek around every doorway and every corner as I make my way back through the lobby. I’ve almost managed to make it to the elevators without running into Nick when I’m stopped by the only other person in this hotel I don’t want to run into.
“Lauren!” I exclaim when she catches my elbow, pulling me to a halt in one of the alcoves of the lobby. “I’d say fancy running into you here, but since we’re all trapped together, I guess it’s par for the course.” I wonder if I could manage to work any more clichés into my next sentence to really show off my stellar way with words.
“I’m glad I caught you, Jessica.” She drops her hand from my elbow, since she literally caught me. “I was talking with Gina and Hannah this morning and they told me you and Nick might be writing a book together.”
Oh god, please do not come out and directly ask me to fake date Nick Matthews. Because after the hour I just had, I might actually agree to the whole farcical plan, and I’ve been a romance reader for way longer than I’ve been a writer and I know the only outcome of a fake dating scheme is for it to become all too real.
Lauren hesitates for just a second, checking to make sure there’s no one else around us. “I’m so excited to read what you guys come up with, I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely fantastic.”
“Oh.” Well. Huh.
I try to identify the feeling building in the pit of mystomach, but then I stop because I’m pretty sure it’s disappointment. But that would mean Iwantedto fake date Nick, and that, surely, is a ridiculous notion. There’s no way I was sitting here, seriously waiting for one of the big deals at my publisher to ask me to fake date my ex-boyfriend.
Lauren is looking at me expectantly, like she needs more from me than a huff of breath.
And this is a woman with tons of power at my publisher, so I give it to her. “I’m super excited about it! Can’t wait to dive in and really get to work!” So much for fewer clichés.
A genuine smile lights up her face. “I think I speak for everyone at SVP when I say we can’t wait either. And I know I probably shouldn’t even say this, but I did mean it, you know, when I said I’d noticed how Nick was looking at you. There might not be feelings there on your side anymore, but I’d be willing to bet he can’t say the same.” She pats my shoulder the way my mother would. “Hope you have a good holiday, I heard that the storm should be clearing up tonight. Hopefully we can all head home tomorrow, just in time for Christmas.”
“Sounds amazing. Safe travels.” I try to inject some cheer into my voice, but her assessment of Nick, combined with everything else that’s happened in the past few days, well, it’s just too much. The thought of our time here at the inn coming to an end tomorrow should bring a sense of relief, but as hard as I search for that particular emotion in the jumble that is my mind, I can’t seem to find it. All I can parse out is uncertainty, and confusion, and a healthy dose of lingering lust.
I need clarity, and I need the truth.
So I march myself over to the elevator after a goodbye to Lauren. I stab at the button for our floor and continue my teenage-angst level stomping down the hallway to our door. I throw it open, expecting to find Nick lounging on the bed, or perched in the armchair, but of course the one time I actually want to see his face, he’s nowhere to be found.
I pace around the room for a minute, attempting to get my thoughts in order. When it becomes clear my pouting isn’t going to magically summon Nick from wherever the hell he is hiding out, I take out my computer and open our Google doc.
I find Nick’s cursor almost immediately because it’s right where I was headed to work out my sexual frustrations on the page—at the beginning of the sex scene. In each of our writing sessions we’ve had so far, we’ve ignored the spicy elephant in the room and skipped right over this section. I sort of assumed Nick would just leave me to write it, since it’s much more in my wheelhouse than his.
Then again, the sex scenes in the books Nick has written since our split have garnered several chili peppers, but maybe the on-page magic he’s written in the past can really be attributed to Gina’s good editing.
I don’t let myself imagine he’s found himself another critique partner.
I consider starting up a conversation in the comments again, but instead, I just watch Nick’s cursor, blinking away for a solid minute before words start to appear.
And I no longer wonder about who’s responsible for Nick’s sex scenes.
My mouth goes dry as I read in real time what Nick is writing. And there’s something about knowing he’s somewhere in this hotel, right this minute, with these kinds of images lingering in his mind. I’d like to say it has no effect on me, but I think it’s clear that would be a big fat lie.
The words stop pouring across the page, and before I can think about why I shouldn’t, I pick up right where he left off.
