And I’m asleep on him.
And probably drooling.
In a panic, my body rockets upright, because that’s chill and not suspicious, and definitely something a girlfriend would do. At the sudden jerking, my seatbelt slams tight, locking me mid-movement, and now I’m stuck in this weird half-lounging, half-upright, fully uncomfortable position.
I have two options. I can either lean on Cole’s shoulder again, or I can sit in this weird, very uncomfortable position for who knows how long.
I decide to make a third option and wrestle with the seatbelt like a caged feral creature.
In hindsight, it’s probably the worst of the options and definitely a bad call. But bad call is my brand, so who’s really surprised?
A firm hand presses into my shoulder and guides me back into Cole’s warm side. “Easy there, tiger. The seatbelt is your friend.”
My father brakes and the car skids, locking the seatbelts even tighter. I’m pinned, strapped against Cole’s side with no more options to woefully execute.
“I think it might be a good time to consider pulling over for the night, Gary,” my mom says in hurried breaths. “The road crews need a chance to clean up, and you know the farther north we go, the worse it’ll be. I don’t want to deal with those Massachusetts drivers in this snow.”
I groan. Last thing I need is another day in the car under my parents’ watchful eyes with Cole when I’m trying to make sense of…everything?
Everything in my life for the past three years has been lie. Which is retroactive karmic justice, I guess, for the lie I’m telling my parents now.
A hand falls to my knee and pats it gently. “Don’t worry. I’ll book two rooms, so you don’t have to put up with your dad’s snoring, okay, princess?”
“Super.” I say through clenched teeth and suffocated breasts. So just kidding,thisis actually the last thing I need.
“I could offer to get my own room,” Cole whispers, as if he senses my anxiety. His breath feathers the back of my neck, and the fine hairs lift in response as if they’re called to him.
“Not after yesterday. I’m pretty sure my mom thinks we’re in love and doing it twenty-four-seven,” I whisper back. “So that’s the story we’re stuck wi—” The end of my sentence drifts away as I realize my lips are millimeters from his. Even in my restricted state, I could capture them if he wanted it, if I was brave enough to ask. But after last night and the revelation this morning, courage is the last thing I have.
Even if this closeness is making my heart pound faster and my breaths to quicken with each second we’re trapped.
“It could be worse.” Cole’s finger tucks under my chin. He raises my lips that last inch, nudging me with his nose. Slowly, he presses what should be a chaste kiss on my lips. Still, his soft brush of the lips melts away all my anxieties and tensions, like snow with the first kiss of spring.
“Booked!” my mom shouts. Cole pulls away, and I’m left embarrassingly chasing his lips, needing more than just a chaste embrace from him. Or wanting it, at any rate.
My mom turns around, beaming at us. “We were extremely lucky to get the last two rooms, too! Isn’t technology amazing? You know, in the old days we had to go into the hotel to see if they had a vacancy and were at the mercy of their overcharging, but I just paid a hundred dollars total. Isn’t that something?”
“Super,” I say, trying to hide my breathless daze. I can’t bring myself to look at Cole. With the way I’ve been drawn to him the last few days, being trapped in a room with him overnight is a terrible idea. Ripe for more embarrassments by yours truly.
Well, at least I won’t be drinking tonight.
Hopefully, the romance gods and patron saints of making stuff awkward will take pity on me and the room will have two beds.
Please. I’m begging.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
NATALIE
It’s official.I severely regret pulling a penny from the Trevi Fountain when I was seven so I could make a wish.
It’s obvious that my wish to find true love is cursed. It definitely can’t bejustmy terrible life decisions. That fountain has to be monumentally spiteful, too.
So it is, through no fault of my own, I find myself sharing a room with Cole Sinclair, a man that two days ago fully ignited the rage quadrant of my brain. A room that my mother purchased for fifty dollars. Typically, I’d follow that with an allegedly because my mother has the tendency to undersell her purchases to my father—mostly when it comes to books. “It was buy two, get one,”is girl code for she wanted to buy two books and also get another one. But between the sticky carpet, the threadbare cover on the full-sized single bed in the room, and the rattle in the heater, I’d say fifty dollars may have been an overpayment for this room.
Shivering and racked with fountain-etiquette regret, I stand over the one bed in this questionable motel room, dressed in the silk camisole and shorts set that I obviously forgot to replacebefore we left because my entire life is a comedy of errors. My mismatched socks—something I never wear to bed—are a desperate attempt to shield my feet from green flooring that can best be classified as a “biohazard” and not so much a carpet.
