“You’re not fine. You’re shaking.” He steps closer, slowly, like I’m an animal he might spook. “Let me help.”
The hallway tilts. His scent is everywhere, and it’s making my head spin in the worst way. I press my spine to the wall to stay vertical.
“I just need to lie down,” I whisper.
He searches my face, jaw clenched so tight I see the muscle jump. “Tell me what you need.”
You, I almost say. I was hoping you could hold me together because I’m falling apart, and I’m so scared, and I miss you so much it’s killing me.
Instead, I say, “Space.”
Something raw flickers across his face. He nods once, sharp.
I slip past him, careful not to let any part of me touch any part of him, because I’m not sure I’d survive it.
He follows anyway. Silent, three steps behind, all the way to the guest wing. I feel his eyes on my back like a brand.
At the door to my guest room, I fumble with the handle. He reaches past me, his chest brushing my shoulder as he turns the knob. The contact is barely there, but my breath catches anyway.
Inside, the room is dim, a lamp glowing soft gold. I step over the threshold and turn to shut the door.
He’s still in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame above my head, close enough that I can see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rough. “We need to talk.”
I swallow. “I know.”
His gaze drops to my mouth again, lingers, then drags back up. “Lock the door behind me.”
He waits until he hears the click before his footsteps finally retreat.
I slide down the inside of the door, knees to chest, and press both palms hard against my stomach as if I can quiet the storm inside.
Tomorrow.
I close my eyes and try not to remember how it felt when he looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted in the entire world. Will he still look at me like that when he finds out my secret?
Chapter four
Oliver
I wake up hard and pissed off, the way I have every morning for the last ten weeks.
Same dream. Same hotel suite. Same red cape on the floor, and Savannah’s back arched beneath me while she gasps my name like it’s the only word she knows. When I wake and reach for her, the sheets are cold, just like every morning.
I drag both hands over my face, roll out of bed, and head downstairs before I do something stupid like march to Savannah’s room.
The house is quiet except for the low hum of Christmas music drifting from the kitchen. Mom always bakes the day after the party. I follow the smell of butter and vanilla like a bloodhound.
I don’t bother with a shirt. It’s my parents’ house, it’s barely eight a.m., and I need coffee more than I need decency.
I round the corner and stop dead.
Savannah is perched on a stool at the island, knees drawn up, wearing an ancient Snowbridge High T-shirt that’s tight enough to make my mouth go dry and a soft gray cardigan she keeps clutching closed with one hand. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, her cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, and her face is bare and pale.
She looks like she slept about as well as I did.
In front of her is a steaming mug. I notice it’s not her usual peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream. I get a whiff of ginger. Maybe her stomach is still bothering her. I hope she didn’t get food poisoning last night.
