Page 76

SERENA

Oh God.

I flip to my back, blinking.

Fuck.

I slept with him again.

My phone sits on the nightstand, halfway plugged in. I tap the screen. It’s dead—I was made of rubber last night, and my hands weren’t steady after he finally dragged himself off my body, leaving me tingling and spent. I pop the cord in and push myself up. The room is bathed in pale morning light. Everything smells faintly of fancy hotel scent—a musky bergamot that will cling to my hair and skin when I leave. An unwelcome reminder. Our clothes lay in heaps on the floor.

I don’t want to look over. That makes it so real.

His presence is overwhelmingly loud, despite him not making a sound. The heaviness of his broad body weighs on the mattress. His breathing is a steady rhythm.

I swallow, throat prickling.

This is a ridiculous, pathetic siation. If I’d known he was going to affect me like this, I wouldn’t have hooked up with him in the first place. Rolling to my side, I study him. The expanse of tanned skin, the spattering of hairs on his chest. The faded-out tattoos here and there on his torso. I wonder how he makes it in this industry. He’s not like them; he’s not willing to play the game. Maybe that’s one of the privileges of being incredibly good at what he does. He never has to suck up to anyone.

I push myself upright and reach for his shirt, rumpled on the floor. It smells like him. I bring it to my face and inhale. Fuck, he has me in a bad way. I pull the shirt on and go push back the curtains to reveal a lightly steamy window and the crisp outdoors.

“You good?”

His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat, and the bed creaks. I don’t turn around. The hotel grounds are empty save a few people walking their fluffy little dogs. The weather is starting to turn cool for autumn. It makes me want to stay in the city for a while, buy a bunch of sweaters, disappear into a bookshop. Not think about the man beside me for a while.

That seems to be impossible.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says softly.

My stomach dips like I went over a sharp hill and dropped. God, he knows how to put the knife between my ribs and twist, doesn’t he?

“I’d like some coffee,” I say finally.

He doesn’t answer me, but I hear him pick up the hotel phone. He orders breakfast. Click, the phone is down, and it’s just us again. He gets up, and I hear him pull his pants on, belt clinking. His warmth settles against my back, his forearm sliding around me and settling over my chest below my collarbones. I sink into him, letting my head droop to the side.

“You are ruining my life,” I say finally.

Silence. I don’t know what made me say that out loud. Plainly, no holds barred. But now that it’s out, I’m so relieved. It’s true, he’s fucking everything up, and I can’t go a day without thinking about him.

I wait, wondering if I said too much.

“You’re ruining mine,” he says finally. “But I’m doing something worse to you: I get it.”

“What are you doing to me?” I whisper.

I want to hear it from his mouth.

“I’m fucking up your chances,” he says. “Or, I’m giving you a chance. I don’t know which is worse.”

Down below, the gate opens, and a shiny black car slips through. The valet comes out and starts unpacking luggage while a fashionable couple gets out and disappears into the hotel. They seem happy, like they belong, and I wonder what that feels like. After being hung up on him for so long, I’m craving something simple. Like not worrying about whether he could make or break my future. Not worrying about if I could cause a scandal that could fuck up his career.

“Can you tell me about what happened with Coen?” I ask.

He releases a sigh from deep inside. “Let’s get our breakfast here, then we can talk.”

I turn in his arms to look up at him. “But promise you won’t ice me out?”

His eyes are soft. His walls are weakened.