“I was already supposed to be done, the original article we did was just to fill a spot that opened up because the person assigned to it went into labor. But then Fallon requested this follow-up article and I couldn’t say no.”
“I thought you trusted me?”
“I do; it’s complicated. Let me help clean up and then we can talk and I can—” His mouth slams shut and he looks over my shoulder as shoes clack onto the tile behind me.
“The box is smart.” Ally comes up beside me and grabs the dryer sheet box. “Sorry the little celebration got cut short. I know it was supposed to be a big secret, but I heard June talking to your father the other day about the resort. She's been so helpful, making sure everything was ready for you, so I know she must feel awful for ending dinner that way.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.
“No, we’ll take care of it. But it’s sweet of you to offer.”
“Of course. I’m going to head upstairs and unpack and turn in early.”
I can tell Liam wants to keep talking, but I need to calm down before I see him again. What’s wrong with me? I’m usually greatat letting this shit roll off my back, but this feels like a small betrayal.
Up in the guest room, it takes me all of five minutes to unpack the already-folded clothes into the top drawer of the dresser. I change into a matching flannel pajama set before washing my face and brushing my teeth in the small en-suite bathroom.
Back in my bedroom, my phone lights up with new texts from Iris.
Iris
So, how’s it going?
Iris
You haven’t fallen off a mountain, right? Because I really don’t want to cover rent by myself.
Me
I’m here. We’re fine(ish). And it’s really pretty. Like a Hallmark billionaire. Nice.
Without having a closer look at the resort, I know this is the case.
There was a time I’d travel to places like this with Kurt and Laura. That last Christmas, just before everything went to shit, we were supposed to go on a ski trip. Nothing special, something we did at least twice a year. We would spend thousands of dollars without batting an eye. I was packing when Mom called. I had been prepared to tell her to call back later, but then she told me I was needed back home, her voice choked with tears.
But that feels so distant now. Almost like that wasn’t my life at all, just a story someone told me once.
Iris
Work your sugar daddy for all it’s worth (obviously I mean Spitfire)
I snort a laugh before navigating to my work email to distract myself. I find a few inquiries and three more cancellations that I draft responses for. It’s a good thing I didn’t blow up this thing with Liam. At this rate, nothing’s predictable. I schedule the emails to be sent tomorrow morning, before moving to my personal one, that I’ve neglected to check for at least a week.
There are three emails from the university’s registrar, all with urgent bold subject lines that scream ACTION NEEDED. Only three? They must have slowed down for the holidays. How considerate.
Before fully turning in, I wrap a robe around me and pad downstairs for water. I’ve had enough experience rummaging around in other people’s cabinets under similar circumstances that it doesn’t take me long to find the cups. I grab one with Snoopy wearing a Santa hat printed on it.
A light is on out back, and at first I think it’s a motion-sensing one, but then I see the steam rising out of the fenced-in area. Stepping closer to the window, I see him.
Eyes shut, broad shoulders stretched with his arms spread wide along the lip of the hot tub. A crease cuts between his brows and tension ripples through his exposed chest—freckled like the rest of him. God. That chest. He might not be a pro-athlete anymore, but it doesn’t seem like his body got the memo. Rivulets of water cling to his skin, a few rolling lazily down his body, from the cut of his jaw down his neck and—
Shit.
Brown eyes lock on me and I nearly jump back. Okay. Great. Now he’s seen me lurking in the shadows, staring at him.
Sorry, Liam, I was just looking at you the way people admire Roman statues, could you just stay there looking all hot and moody while I grab a sketchbook?
He waves at me—a swift, casual flick of his fingers.
