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“Don’t open the box! Let them do it!”
Sighing, I turn, glance at the box one more time in my rearview mirror, then put the truck into gear and drive away.
This had better be worth it. Otherwise, there will be some serious payback.
Chapter 31
Now Or Never
Carrie
Isitonthebalcony of my hotel room overlooking the Coeur d'Alene Lake. As I read my romance novel, a warm breeze ruffles the pages of my book. Motors rumble from boats parking in the docks below me on the boardwalk, and the sun touches the horizon, turning the sky a brilliant shade of pink and orange.
I’ve ordered room service, and the savory scent of hamburger on the nearby table makes my mouth water. I grab another giant prawn and dip it in the tangy cocktail sauce before taking a bite and chewing.
I nearly forget the food when I get to the climax of my book where the guy declares his love for the woman, and they end up in a massive embrace. Instead of devouring the food, I’m devouring the pages, lost in the emotion, the want, the needing of the characters.
When the chapter ends, I close my eyes and sigh, pressing the book to my chest. What I wouldn’t give to experience love like that. To be wanted. Needed. Loved without conditions or manipulation. Just… loved.
Then I remember my ex, and how I was never enough for him or his family. And Ryan and how nothing seemed to work out with him.
Is the love I read in my romance novels a myth? Something concocted to sell more books? To make me miserable in my own life? Like never being skinny enough, or pretty enough, or rich enough?
Is a healthy, loving relationship unattainable too?
I shove my hamburger into my mouth with a way-too-aggressive bite. I instantly regret it. I’ve literally bit off more than I can chew and there’s no delicate way of masticating everything in my mouth. Plus, several bits of the burger condiments tumble down the front of my shirt, leaving stains I’m sure will take an act of God to remove.
I feel like a hamster with both my cheeks stuffed to overflowing as I chew, swallow, and repeat, sipping water to help it all go down.
Someone knocks on my door and I groan.
Seriously? Right now?
Maybe if I don’t answer, they’ll go away.
Standing, I chew faster, and swallow some more, just in case I have to answer the door. There’s no way I’m gonna open the door with my mouth full. I grab a napkin and frantically wipe at my shirt. It only makes the stains bigger.
I groan and swallow again. Except I inhale at the same time, forcing some of my food into the wrong pipe. I start to choke, cough, and choke some more.
Geez. Is this how I’m gonna die? Because I was rage-eating and literally inhaled my burger?
There’s another knock at my door.
I finally cough up the food that has gone down my windpipe with one final cough, but now my throat burns and itches, making me cough until tears stream down my face, and I'm sure a lung is about to come up.
I’ve also lost the element of silence which means I can’t trick the person at the door into thinking I’m not here. Fan-freaking-tastic.
Sighing, I wipe the cough-induced tears from my face, stride to the door, and yank it open, preparing to yell at the hotel staff that interrupted me.
“What do you—” I choke on my words and start coughing again.
Ryan is standing in the hallway carrying a long black box that looks like it would hold a rifle or something. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops. “Babs?”
I whirl around and give him my back, now fully aware of what I probably look like. No make-up, my hair in a two-day-old messy bun, wearing my scraggliest sweats with a giant ketchup stain down the front of my sweater, and my face is probably red and splotchy from all the coughing.
Just kill me now.
Behind me—much closer than before–he says, “Are you all right?”
