* * *
By the time I hear the water draining, I’ve changed into a clean shirt, wiped down the rest of Waffles’s destruction zone, and sent a terse text to Chad to tell him we won’t be joining the group lunch.
He responds with three thumbs-up, and I resist the urge to block him.
The bathroom door creaks open, and Tessa emerges in one of the hotel robes, hair damp, and cheeks flushed from the heat. She doesn’t say anything. Just limps slowly back to the bed and climbs in beside Waffles, who immediately curls into her side.
The robe slips off one of her shoulders when she sits back, exposing the line of her collarbone. My eyes hit it before I can stop them, and my pulse spikes because I remember touching her there, remember the way she’d breathe harder when I put my mouth on that exact spot.
I look away for half a second, then immediately look back because I’m a disaster with no self-respect.
I need to get myself under control.
This is supposed to be simple. A performance with rules and boundaries I designed. But she sinks into the bed, and suddenly I can’t remember why I ever believed I could keep this clean. Or why I thought three years was enough time to get her out of my system.
I stay in the armchair, elbows braced on my knees, watching her the way a sane man wouldn’t. “Feel better?”
She shrugs, tugging the robe higher on her shoulder. “Less homicidal.”
“Good. One of us should be.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You didn’t have to run a bath.”
“I didn’t.”
“Right,” she says dryly. “You just accidentally turned on the faucet and dumped in bath salts.”
I raise a brow. “You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes, but she hides the smile behind Waffles’s head as she scratches behind his ears. The room feels different for a moment. The quiet settles in a way that doesn’t make me want to pace a hole in the floor.
I stand before she can ruin it. “Stay there. I’ll get food.”
She blinks at me. “You don’t have to?—”
“Stay,” I repeat, already moving toward the door. “If you walk around like that, you’ll limp straight into another partner meeting, and I’m not rescuing you twice in one day.”
She doesn’t argue.
And I don’t let myself look back as I leave.
Ten minutes later, I come back, balancing two paper containers of grilled chicken wraps, fries, and a brownie so oversized I don’t want to think about its calorie count. I’d pretend the trip wasn’t for her, but even I’m not that delusional.
She’s still on the bed when I walk in—ankle propped on a pillow, robe tied tight,Legally Blondeplaying with the volume low.
“I brought sustenance,” I say, holding up the boxes.
“Smells like fries,” she replies without looking away from the screen.
“Excellent observation. Truly groundbreaking work. You could’ve been a detective.”
I set the food between us and sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed. It’s close enough to feel the warmth of her legs through the blanket, but far enough that I can pretend it’s accidental.
She reaches into a container, grabs a fry, and eats it without meeting my eyes. The silence stretches, but it’s not the acidickind we walked in with; it’s quiet, and almost cautious, like we’re both waiting to see which version of us is going to show up next.
“Do I want to know how you bribed the kitchen?” she asks finally.
“I didn’t.”
