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“Not that I know of. And even if there was, I’m not risking it.” He points out to the windshield. “I saw a motel a few miles back.”
His tone makes it clear he’s not asking. Part of me is screaming because I have to share a room with him. But the other feels relieved because I won’t have to face Kendrick’s wrath just yet. He’s been texting me all night, asking for an explanation that I can’t bring myself to give him.
What could I say? Hey, Kendrick, I just wanted to let you know that I did exactly what you told me not to do and caught feelings for your enemy. What’s for dinner?
We drive in silence. I don’t dare say a word, afraid that I’ll distract him. This kind of weather requires his undivided attention. When we see the motel in the distance and the numerous cars in the parking lot, we know that a lot of people had the same idea as we did.
We get out of the vehicle and run toward the entrance as fast as the wind and violent rain allow us to. The area around the front desk is crawling with people who are just as eager to escape the rain as we are. When our turn finally comes, Haze asks for a room with two beds. The employee tells him that they only have a room with one bed available due to the large number of unexpected arrivals.
Haze gives me a look that says, “Is that okay?” I shrug as an answer.
What else can I do? Sleep in the car?
“It’s fine,” he tells the guy.
He completely ignores me when I try and pay for half of the room and hands the employee his card.
One night stuck in a motel room with Haze Adams?
Sure, why not?
WHEN HAZE STEPS INTO THE ROOM and drops clothes on the bed, I’m not sure if I should thank him or be upset. As soon as we settled into the room—not that we really needed settling because we have no luggage—Haze said that he had some dry clothes for me in the car. Something about always bringing some of his clothes in his trunk to be prepared.
And by prepared he probably means for when he needs to change after sneaking out of his one-night stand’s bed.
The thought stings although I’ll never admit it.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, and when he smirks, I know the awkward moment has passed and the Haze I know is back.
“A shower, huh?”
“Don’t even think about it, Adams.” I push the door open.
He grins. “I didn’t say anything.”
The last thing I see before entering the bathroom is Haze kicking off his shoes and throwing himself onto the bed. My shower is short and cold. When I step out of it, I happily put on Haze’s dry sweatpants and hoodie. I’d hoped that they’d stop the shivers running down my spine, but they don’t. I’m afraid I’m going to catch a cold. As soon as I exit the bathroom, he complains about the fact that the TV only has two channels: the news and a channel that merely plays old black-and-white movies. He rolls to his side, looking at me, and smiles. Silent, he carefully analyzes my clothes—or should I say his clothes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He smiles. “Because you’re adorable.”
My cheeks heat up.
“Straight to the point, aren’t we?”
“No time to beat around the bush anymore.”
He’s right. I’ve tried not to think about it, but I can’t run from the truth any longer: the fight’s the day after tomorrow, and I have to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for what I’m about to see. Haze and Kendrick fighting. Violently.
If Haze wins, I’ll have to spend a month with him.
If he loses, I can never see or talk to him ever again.
And… I’m not sure which one is worse.
I lie down on the bed next to him and glance at the clock on the nightstand. 3:03 a.m.
I yawn. “I’m exhausted.”
