He cut me off with a look. “I didn’t follow you.”
We stared at each other, my breath coming a little too fast. I could feel eyes on us—the receptionist peeking from the back, the breakfast hostess hovering near the doorway, a kid with a waffle pausing mid-syrup—but I didn’t care.
“What are the odds?” I asked. “All the cities in all the world, and you walk into the one hotel where I’m trying to keep my head down?”
He took me in again, slower this time, like he was cataloguing changes. The lines at the corners of my eyes. The way my T-shirt slipped low enough to show a hint of collarbone, of strap. The tired, jagged edges I usually hid.
“Maybe the odds were never in your favor,” he said quietly.
My throat tightened. “You have no idea what’s in my favor.”
His gaze softened by a fraction. That made me angrier than anything.
“Can we talk somewhere that isn’t the middle of the lobby?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
The word was out before I could temper it. Sharp. Absolute. Final.
I wanted him to flinch. He didn’t. He looked around instead, taking in the hovering staff, the watching eyes.
“Suit yourself,” he murmured. “You always did like an audience.”
Something ugly and hurt and old snarled inside me. “You don’t get to talk about what I like. You forfeited that right.”
He went still at that, jaw tightening just enough to let me know the hit had landed.
“Emerson,” he started.
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Do not say my name like that. You lost that right, too.”
For a second, for a heartbeat, we were back in the tent—the heat, the press of his body, his mouth at my ear. The way he’d said my name then like it tasted good.
I slammed the door on the memory so hard I could almost hear it.
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” I said, because it was either that or start screaming in the middle of the hotel. “Enjoy your stay. Charleston’s … humid.”
I tried to move past him.
He stepped into my path.
Not close enough to touch. Close enough that my body remembered exactly how he fit against it.
My pulse leapt, traitorous.
“Get out of my way,” I said.
“I’m not here to fight with you in a lobby,” he said, tone even. “Or anywhere, if I can help it.”
“Funny,” I said. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re the one who loaded the weapon last time.”
His eyes flickered. There. There it was—the crack. The reminder that he wasn’t as impenetrable as he wanted to be.
“I’m not your enemy, Amelia,” he said softly.
I laughed. It wasn’t nice. “You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, the last time we saw each other, you did a damn good impression of one.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he was choosing between a dozen things he could say, none of which I trusted.
