Chapter 3
Frank didn’t sleep againthat night. He lay on top of the soft white quilt and let anger and self-loathing twist in his gut, not caring in the least that it wasn’t a healthy way to deal with what had happened.
At one point he realized his face was wet, and he desperately wished he’d stolen a bottle of tequila from the main lodge. At another point he found himself face down, buried in the pillows, and he wasn’t sure he wasn’t silently screaming.
Just make it to the morning, he told himself. He’d sort his shit out then.
For now, he was wallowing in the stark, blinding grief of waking up to Not Bia in his arms. And the warped, upsetting feeling that his body hadn’t cared, that his body had just been happy to have another source of heat to wrap around.
Heat, curves, sweetness.
As soon as he’d realized what was happening, he’d let her go. But somewhere in there had been a millisecond when he’d wanted to keep holding the faceless, nameless woman because she felt good against him.
And he fucking hated himself for that.
In the morning, he’d get that under control.
For now, though, the train was pulling into Loathing Central in his head, and he didn’t give a damn if that wasn’t a good idea.
* * *
Grace wokeup full of regret—and that was before she tried to roll over.
Oh, Jesus, her head.
She was never drinking ever again.
Why was she up, anyway? It was… She lifted her eyes just enough to gingerly search for a clock.
No clock.
No clue what time it was.
The light streaming in the window wasn’t blazing yet. And then in the distance she heard a bell. Maybe that was what had woken her up. Breakfast call.
She didn’t want to eat anything. She wanted to stay in bed and think hard about what she’d done.
“Ms. Bennett?”
She groaned at the sound of the voice from outside.
It was followed by a knock.
Go away, she thought about saying, but that wasn’t in the camp spirit. “Yes?”
“Breakfast hours have begun,” someone said, far too cheerily. “And Heather is going to do her welcome to camp spiel in half an hour. Orient everyone to the day’s activities.”
That didn’t sound optional. Well, it was, of course, but only if Grace wanted to skip the rest of the day.
Could she skip the entire week? Have sandwiches sent over until Tegan arrived Friday night?
And then what? You’ll tell your daughter you got blitzed out of your mind, crawled into a man’s bed, kind of enjoyed the way he felt you up until it got weird and awkward, and then…you chickened out of life?
Right. No, she wasn’t going do that.
“I’m up,” she called out. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon.”
It took her twenty-five minutes. A hot shower, a clean change of clothes, and a loose bun for her still-damp hair made a world of difference.
