Page 65 of Waiting for You

"How was the hike?" I asked.

"It was nice," she said, running a hand through her damp hair. "Helpful, actually. I needed to be outside sweating. How's your migraine?"

"Better," I lied.

We went upstairs to our suite. She dropped onto the edge of the king bed and started untying her muddy boots.

"You want a quick massage?" I offered, walking over. "Where'd the guide take you guys today? The ridge trail⁠—"

"I don't want a massage from you right now," she cut in, her voice like ice.

I went still and gave a slow nod. She described the trail anyway, and I forced myself to listen, asking all the right follow-up questions, while the tension sat in me the whole time.

"How's your head, really?" she demanded.

"Better," I repeated. "The medication finally kicked in."

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," she announced, staring at the wall.

I pulled out the desk chair and sat.

"Since we landed, the two of us have barely spent a consecutive hour together."

"That's not true," I defended. "We've been sitting together at all the group meals, we sleep in the same room⁠—"

"At breakfast," she interrupted. "That's the only instance I can point to where we sat shoulder to shoulder and actually talked. The rest of the day, you're either alone with Sloane, or I'm left with Andrew." She took a jagged breath. "I don't even know who I'm supposed to be dating on this trip anymore. Is it you? Or is it Sloane? Because she's constantly right beside you."

"There's nothing romantic going on between me and Sloane," I stated.

"I recognize that's the script you're sticking to," she countered, finally looking at me. "But this isn't about whether something illicit is happening. It's about what our dynamic looks like to everyone else in this estate. We're supposed to be a couple. Strangers see us, they ask me basic questions about your schedule, and I have zero answers because you keep vanishing."

She pressed her palms flat against her knees. "We made a corporate arrangement, and I understood the parameters, but the arrangement doesn't require us to flat-out fail at looking like the partners we're claiming to be." She paused, her jaw clenching. "I despise being the clueless topic of pitying conversations I'm not even present for."

"Our arrangement belongs to us," I argued. "It doesn't matter what the rest of the group assumes."

"It matters to me," she fired back, her eyes flashing. "I'm not begging you to fake a grand romance. I'm asking you to be present." She locked her dark eyes onto mine. "You need to ask yourself why you keep ending up right next to her."

"There's nothing happening between me and Sloane," I repeated. "And whatever's causing us to cross paths, I'll put a stop to it."

She stared at me, unimpressed. "Put a stop to what? There's nothing to put a stop to. I'm just asking my boyfriend to spend an adequate amount of time with me on a couples trip."

"Understood," I conceded. "I'll fix it."

She grabbed a fresh towel off the rack and started toward the bathroom.

"Eliza," I called, my voice heavy.

She stopped.

"The ex-fiancée I mentioned to you months ago," I confessed to her back. "The woman from my residency. It was Sloane."

She turned around.

I sat still, watching her process the fallout. She stayed planted in the dead center of the suite, gripping the white towel in both hands, staring at me. Her dark brows pulled together for one agonizing second before smoothing out, her mouth pressing into a thin, resigned line.

"I see," she murmured.

"It ended badly," I added, my voice rough. "For both of us."