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The workshop isn’t about princes, it’s aboutpiercings.On guys. Down there.
Heat sears my skin until my blush blisters like a seven-hour sunburn. Sprinting to my room, I finally get the conference’s over-eighteen policy. Although will one more year really make any of those images less disturbing?
Desperate for a distraction, I grab Vi’s copy ofRunoff her nightstand. A hundred pages in, I realize two things. Number one—even though I’d vote Donna off the island every time, I’d also vote for this book in the award she’s up for Sunday. She’sgood. Number two—that PowerPoint image is like a chemical burn seared on my eyes for eternity.
Halfway throughRun, there’s a short knock on the door, followed by muffled words that sound like, “Lost my key.”
I play with the idea of pretending not to be here, then cave like I always do with Vi and open the door.
My insides flip forward, backward, and sideways at Gabriel standing in the hall gripping a Texas Rangers cap in one hand and a pair of dark shades in the other. “You’re not Vi.”
“Nope.” His standard smile is sucked-into-the-ground absent as he leans against my doorframe. He’s not casual and cocky like yesterday, he’s tense and tired like there’s too much going on in his head.
I can’t help from asking, “Are you okay?”
His lips say, “Yep.” His eyes say Nope. “Lost my room key.” In response to my doubtful look, he puts his hands up and spins in a full circle. “Search me if you want.”
“I’m not going to put my hand... in your pants.” I shudder in a flashback to that workshop. “Can’t you get another one at the front desk?”
“I can get my old one if you let me in.” He points to the adjoining door between our rooms.
“You left the door unlocked? Are you crazy? You’ve known me like six minutes. Your boxers auctioned on the internet would fund my college education.”
“Community college maybe.” He hooks his sunglasses in the V of his shirt and shoves his cap on his head. “I’d like to shower and change before tonight.”
Tonight. My evening of introvert hell—i.e., my first book signing. I check my phone. The event starts in fifty minutes. That leaves me zero time to find an outfit and even less time to properly freak out.
“Jess, please.” Even his sigh sounds exhausted.
My Gabriel empathy wrestles with my urge to slam the door and wins. Empathy sucks. I widen the door and step back. “I wouldn’t go in your room, you know.”
“I know.”
“Even if you invited me.” Why does that feel like a lie?
The barest glimpse of a naughty smile breaks through his sober expression. “That’s too damn bad.”
The idea of us alone in his room creates chaotic cartwheels inside me. In a split-second break with reality, I let myself wonder what this week could’ve been like if he hadn’t blindsided me at the bottom of an escalator. If he didn’t have a fan club. Or a Los Angeles ego.
And then he walks past me, and wearealone. Inmyroom.
Instead of going for the adjoining door, he stoops to pick up something off the floor. When he turns to me, he’s holding the diary. “Do you keep a journal?”
I must’ve left it out this morning. The thought that Vi could’ve found it tidal-waves my stomach. The thought of him reading it does the same. “Don’t—”
“If you do, it’s cool.” Without even trying to snoop a little bit, he offers me the worn blue book. “I’ve been thinking about doing that.”
“You have?” He doesn’t seem the journal type.
“Yeah.” Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he drops it and himself on the bed and gestures to my giant reject pile. “The hotel does have a special place where clothes live.” He points toward the closet. “They even have these things called hangers.”
Shoving the diary in the bottom of my suitcase, I make a mental note to hide it better later. “I thought you were going to your room. You’re stalling my outfit crisis.” Hoping he’ll walk away, I start a round of silent eeny-meeny-miny-mo between a black skirt and a pair of white pants.
He flops back onto my pillow. His hat falls off and he runs his fingers through his hair until he looks less Hollywood, more human.
The motion comes with an unwelcome desire to reach out and brush back the hair falling on his forehead. I curl my fingers into my palms.
Rubbing his eyes, he yawns, and lifts his arms in a huge stretch that makes his shirt ride up and my stomach somersault.
