“This room.” He looks at the bed shoved against the wall, the narrow strip of floor between them. “It’s a closet.”
I thought the same thing, but instead of agreeing with him, I straighten my spine and pull away from him. “I have more than enough space.”
He’s looking around with his mouth dropped open, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, since he’s still not saying anything.
His lips press into an angry line. “Nothing.” Then he takes me in, and his expression softens. “I missed you.”
I cross my arms. “Really? Couldn’t tell with the way you practically ran from me when we got here.”
His shoulders fall. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”
“You’re the one who keeps pushing for transparency. You’re the one who suggested we—” I pause, catching on the words. Unable to voice the stupid, mature decision we came to. The one that made so much sense at the time and makes so little sense now, with him standing two feet away in my tiny room, my hurt feelings all jumbled up.
“I just had a lot on my mind. I’m sorry. But it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about us.”
“There isn’t really anus, Logan,” I say, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.
He fidgets. It looks wrong on him somehow—he’s still the same tall, clean, well-dressed billionaire doctor type, that one undone button signaling he’s on vacation. But something is off. This is his world, not mine. He fits into it, except in here, in this tiny room, with me, he’s out of place.
“Look, I’m sorry I was a little off when we arrived. I just had—”
“A lot on your mind. Yeah, you said.” I look up at him. “Did you tell my sister I smelled bad?”
“What?”
I feel like a child. Like I’m whining to the teacher. But the text exchange is poking at me like a bruise I can’t stop pressing, and I’m just really tired of feeling small in this group. Of being laughed out of Pearl’s orbit.
“She showed me your messages. You said I was exhausting. You couldn’t wait to get out of the car because I smelled bad. Like garlic and BO.”
“Jesus fucking—”
“You know, for the record,” I say, feeling that vulnerability harden in my chest. I walk toward the bathroom, dig out the offending balm, and shove it into his chest hard enough that he has to grab it. “Arnica is great for bruises. It disrupts inflammation, gets the blood moving. Galangal, garlic vine—also anti-inflammatory, good for injuries. Beeswax protects the skin. Did you know beeswax has been used medicinally for over six-thousand years? I was in a plane crash, Logan. I really didn’t give a shit what I smelled like.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I know I’m overreacting. But everything about this man makes me feel like I’m on a roller coaster, and I just can’ttakeit anymore. I turn away, blinking hard.
“Baby—”
“Don’t baby me,” I snap.
He exhales. Runs his hands through his hair. Then, without asking, he takes the balm and sits down on the edge of the bed. He unscrews the cap. Sniffs. Makes a face. “Yeah, this was it.”
I hate the amused look on his face. The slight pink tinging his ears, the curve of his perfect lips.
“Glad we solved that mystery.” I reach for the jar, but he holds it just out of reach, and when I lunge for it, he wraps both arms around my waist and pulls me in.
“I’m really sorry she showed you those messages. That was monumentally shitty of her.” He presses his nose against my chest, taking a deep inhale. Even with him seated, I still feel like he towers over me. “But I’m an asshole for sending them. We had just gotten on the road. It was the morning after the flight, we barely started driving together. I was pissed off, we weren’t exactly getting along yet, and I took it out on you, said something stupid and mean.” He pauses. “That’s not an excuse. I just want you to know where I was at when I texted her.”
I look down into his eyes, wanting to have a reason to hold on to my anger. But I wondered when the messages were sent. And I could have just as easily said something mean about him to Easton.
It still hurt to read, though.
“Pearl said—”
“I don’t want to hear her name right now.” His arms tighten, and something in his voice makes me go quiet. “I’m sorry about the messages. Let me make it up to you.”
My nerves crest. “... How?”
