"This is good," I say, because someone needs to fill the quiet.
"Mmm."
That's it. That's all I get.
I go back to my food, trying not to feel the weight of everything unsaid between us. Trying not to notice how his hair falls forward when he cuts his steak, or the way his forearms look with his sleeves rolled up, or the fact that we're eating dinnertogether in a romantic hotel room and he's treating it like a business meeting.
Story of my life.
When we finish, I gather up the dishes while he works on his laptop. Always working. I should probably work too—those contracts won't send themselves—but I'm exhausted and my heart hurts and I just want this day to be over.
"I'm going to get ready for bed," I announce.
He nods without looking up.
I grab my overnight bag and lock myself in the bathroom. In the mirror, I look exactly like I feel—tired, sad, confused. I wash my face, brush my teeth, change into flannel pajama pants and a tank top. When I take out my braid, my hair falls in waves—the natural texture I always straighten away.
I stare at myself. This is who I really am. Soft, curvy, with messy hair and no makeup. Would Garth even recognize me like this?
Would he like what he saw?
I push the thought away and head back out. Garth's still at his laptop, but he looks up when I emerge.
For just a second, his eyes widen. Then the mask slams back down.
"Bathroom's free," I say quietly, climbing into bed—the far side, as close to the edge as I can get without falling off.
He stands, grabs his bag, and disappears inside. I hear the shower start, and I try very hard not to think about Garth Rhodes naked and wet six feet away from me.
I fail spectacularly.
When he comes out ten minutes later in boxer briefs and a t-shirt, I'm pretending to be asleep. Through my lashes, I watch him turn off the lights—all except the glow from the courtyard outside—and slide into bed.
He stays on his side. I stay on mine. There's got to be two feet between us, but I can feel the heat of his body, smell his soap—something clean and masculine.
"Goodnight, Claire."
"Goodnight, Mr. Rhodes."
Mr. Rhodes. Even now, sharing a bed in a honeymoon suite surrounded by rose petals, I call him Mr. Rhodes.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. Outside, the snow keeps falling, blanketing everything in white. Inside, I'm achingly aware of every breath he takes, every tiny shift of his body.
This is going to be the longest night of my life.
2
Garrett
I'm lying in a honeymoon suite covered in rose petals with my twenty-four-year-old assistant six inches away from me, and I can't stop thinking about how soft her hair looked when she came out of the bathroom.
She straightened it this morning. I always notice, but tonight it was wavy and loose and falling over her shoulder, and something about seeing her like that, without all her careful armor in place, made me feel these complicated feelings even harder.
This is a problem.
This has been a problem for fourteen months, but tonight it's an acute, immediate problem because she's right there and I can smell her shampoo and hear her breathing, and I'm supposed to be sleeping.
I'm not sleeping.
