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“They can just cancel reservations like that?” I ask because that seems like a pretty poor business model.
“Your name didn’t match the card, so they cancelled,” she says.
I can tell it’s a small hotel, and actually, maybe even the only one in this tiny town, but damn. They really mean business.
“Well, buckle up, sugar,” I tell her. “You’re in for the weekend of your life.”
* * *
We wheel our luggage into the hotel through a side door that’s in close proximity to our room and make our way down the green-carpeted hallway to our room.
“Hey, that’s weird, isn’t it?” I point to the bronze numbers decorating our hotel room door. “110. that’s the address of the record shop.”
“So weird.” She smirks and rolls her eyes. I can tell she thinks it’s a silly thing to point out.
Once in and settled, Isla sits on the bed with her bare legs outstretched, fingering the fraying hem of her light denim shorts, and I sit in the most uncomfortable chair in the fucking universe.
“I think we should talk about earlier,” I say, unable to let it go.
She doesn’t respond, intensely staring at her phone. She told me she was trying to get details about tonight, so I assume she’s too focused to hear me. I’ve learned that she tends to get lost in her own little world.
“So, we have to meet down in the lobby at nine. The party bus will drive us around. I guess we’re going to three different spots.”
She’s talking about the combined bachelor and bachelorette party. I still can’t figure out why we’re going to this party. I mean, attending a wedding to be cordial is one thing, but a bachelor and bachelorette party just seems like pure torture.
“Cool. Let’s talk about earlier,” I say again.
“What do you want to talk about from earlier? We can agree to disagree, Bordeaux. You think I’m scorned and I don’t.”
“Do you still want to be with this dude? Or have you accepted that he’s a prick and he’s marrying someone else?”
She looks at me with wide eyes and scrunches her brows together. “W-what?” she stutters. “Of course, I don’t want to be with him.”
“Look, Isla. I think you’re really cool. You’ve intrigued the hell out of me ever since you walked into the shop wearing that tight little black number—”
“Of course, it’s about my dress,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“Let me finish,” I say sternly. “You remember the bit you said about why you love music? I loved that. My soul quite literally ate that up and begged for more. I felt a connection to you that I couldn’t ignore. That I didn’t want to ignore. You looked at me like I was a person. You had a conversation with me. You didn’t ask for my autograph and tell me how hot I am. You didn’t scream and tell me I’m your favorite singer. You just talked to me.” I shrug. “I liked that.” I look directly at her, silently begging her to understand, because I honestly don’t know if anything I’m saying is making sense right now.
I never do this shit. I never care about what women think of me. I’m better off keeping things to myself, but something about the way her broken parts fit so well into mine—without her even realizing it—makes me just spew all of this out to her.
She doesn’t even know about my brokenness, not yet, maybe not ever, and if she did, she’d probably bolt even faster.
“So yeah,” I continue, “I enjoyed your dress, of course. What straight male wouldn’t? But I enjoyed your mind, and your snarky tongue, and your ability to make me forget who I am.” I pause. “I enjoyed that a hell of a lot more.”
She looks at me with quite possibly some of the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. I fucking hate it. I so badly want to get up out of this chair, walk over to her, cradle her face in my hands, and kiss her, but I stay in my spot. I won’t cross a line with her.
“So, you don’t want him back?” I ask. I need to know she doesn’t want him, despite not being able to have her myself. This fucking ache in my chest at the thought is paralyzing. I can’t have her. I don’t want to hurt her when my brain lumps her in with every other woman and sends her packing in the early morning hours after we spend the night together. I don’t trust myself not to do that.
“Not at all,” Isla says. “I want him to want me back. But I don’t want him back. I want him to feel like shit for what he did.” She shrugs and I can’t blame her. She’s scarred from this man.
I look down at the time on my phone and realize we’ve got to be in the lobby soon, according to the itinerary she told me about earlier.
“Showtime, sugar.”
Fifteen
Isla
