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When I came in fourth, I wanted to punch something. Or someone. But there was no one to blame but myself for that fourth place. Just me and my mind.
My mind wasn’t on the race. And it wasn’t the entire damn weekend.
All I wanted tonight was to sulk in my hotel room, but of course, Soren had other plans. He just had to drag me to that fancy restaurant with the hot waiter who clearly wanted Soren.
The dude was desperate for it.
And I mean... since I can’t seem to quit jerking off to thoughts of Soren, I guess I get it. Except I fucking don’t.
I don’t know what’s going on with me, but it’s wreaking havoc on my whole damn life.
“Do you want to talk?” Soren asks me after following me up to my room.
No. I don’t want to talk at all.
I wanted to punch the waiter for ogling Soren and being not at all subtle about the things he’d like to do to him—or what he wanted Soren to do to him. I don’t really even know how it all works.
I’ve only been with women, but that doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about Soren. All the damn time.
It’s becoming a real problem.
One I don’t understand at all.
He’s a pain in my ass. One I want to go away, but then again, the thought of him actually going away is terrifying to me.
“Yeah, I want to talk.” Soren looks startled, his eyes going wide as he looks up at me, his lips parted in surprise. Damn it, I’m staring at those full lips for way too damn long before I finally finish my thought. “Why didn’t you take that waiter up on his offer?”
Another round of shock seems to go through Soren before it transforms into annoyance as he flops down on the sofa in the suite, just making himself at home. “That’s not what I meant.”
I sit down next to him, probably too close since my knee touches his, but I can’t bring myself to care. I know that’s not what he wanted to talk about, but it’s all I could think about on the walk back.
“Because I had plans tonight.”
He’s not telling the truth—at least, not the whole truth. Soren is a terrible liar. “Right. Work.”
He takes a deep breath and then shrugs. “Getting to know Royal Dutton.”
I roll my eyes at that and lean back into the sofa. “That’s work.”
He snorts. “You have no idea. Especially because you won’t fucking talk to me. About anything real.”
My jaw works in frustration, and I won’t look at him. Just keep my eyes straight ahead on the large television that isn’t even on. “You know what? I’m tired. You should go. We can do an interview another time.”
I hate how cold my voice sounds. I want to put on the show—the loud boisterous persona—but how can I?
I was awful this weekend. There’s nothing to be arrogant about.
I just want to sink into my own despair right now. And I really don’t need a witness to this.
I get up and walk toward the door, ready to open it and kick his ass out, but he’s off the couch and gets to the door first, blocking it. “Are you mad at me or something?”
I want to laugh.
Mad?
I’m always mad at him. He’s an asshole who hates me and blogs about it. This is our thing. Why the hell does he all of a sudden care? And why do I?
None of it makes any sense at all.
