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Mase stands in the middle of the hall oo the sixteenth floor of the Platinum Hotel with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, thinking of me.
Thinking of me.
“I can pretend lots of things,” he says, cracking one eye open. “You should too.”
I gesture for him to go, pointing down the hall. “Goodbye.”
“I’ll miss you.” I feel like I’m sinking into the soft gold carpet in a puddle of melted butter. Mase says the sweetest things.
No one ever tells me they miss me—other than Bexley when she left to film The Suitor.
Just as I open my mouth to tell him the same, I hear the unmistakable sound of Shae’s voice inside the room across from mine.
“Go,” Mase hisses. My key card is already in hand and I have the door open in record time. I cast a last glance at a smiling Mase, and then the door across is opening.
“Mase!” Shae cries. “What are you doing lurking in the hall?”
My door clicks shut and I heave a sigh of relief. That was close.
I lean against it, unable to stop the smile—probably one of the foolish, goofy grins the heroine sports in romcom movies just as she distractedly walks into a pole. I may be distracted, but at least I’ve got better luck. No one is in the sitting room, and all three-bedroom doors are still closed, which means everyone is still sleeping. It was pure luck that I shut my door last night when we left, so the unslept-in bed won’t be a dead giveaway that I haven’t been home. It should be fine keeping Mase to myself—
“You okay there?”
Chrissa steps out of the small kitchenette, a cup of coffee in her hand. I don’t know if that’s better or worse than Demi or Biba. None of them know me well. As long as it’s not Bexley or maybe Rachel—
“Fiona? Everything okay?”
“Uh…yeah,” I manage. “Everything’s good. Great. Just fine.” I shrink against the door as Chrissa comes closer. What am I supposed to say? I can’tlie, at least not convincingly. “I’m fine.”
She smirks, long, dark hair still wet from her shower. “You just getting in?”
“I—uh—no, I went out early,” I stammer. “Just came back.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I went for a walk. Shopping.” I pull the shoe bag to eye level. “I needed shoes. My feet really hurt last night and with another late night tonight…” I trail off, a different kind of foolish smile on my face.
Her eyes track to the skirt of my green dress, horribly wrinkled, and up to the Minnesota Twins training shirt on top.
Well, darn.
“That’s cool,” she says but her dancing eyes suggest anything but. “Nice shirt.”
“I, uh, had a stain.”
“You’re a bad liar, you know that?” Chrissa smiles. “I’m going to find food after I dry my hair, if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll try to get another couple hours sleep. Late night and all.”
“Late night. Sure. Well, I’ll be around if you need me.” She smirks again. “I won’t say anything about the shirt.”
“Thanks.” My shoulders sag with relief as Chrissa heads into her bedroom.
That was—I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle the giggle.
I am a very bad liar. But I think I might be very good at being married.
Mase
