I grin. Who knew snoring sounded so fun? Maybe the polite thing for the rest of the bus would be to wake Enzo up, but I won’t do that either.
Finn catches my eye and smirks. I ignore him. Outside, Connecticut blurs past the windows, and highway lights flicker on one by one. Enzo’s breathing has gone deep and even, his hand curled near my knee like he’s holding on. My fingers keep moving through his hair, gentle and slow, and I don’t stop.
I hate him.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Axel
It’s raining just as much in New York as in Boston, and when the elevator to the lobby opens and I spot the hotel bar, I head straight there.
A year ago, I would have been hanging out with Finn and Evan and Luke, but now they’re in couples.
The draw of a bed is apparently too appealing to them, even though they have one at home with their live-in-partners.
It’s fine. The hotel bar is cool. All fancy emeralds and golds and sapphires, like someone watched too many old movies.
I scan the bar, and then I find them. One blonde, one brunette. They’re both wearing skirt suits and sitting in some armchairs around a glowing fire.
The embers and flames do that dancing thing that chicks think is romantic, and the bar is helpfully playing Frank Sinatra.
I order a whiskey on the rocks and wrap my hands around the glass. The ice clinks when I swirl it. The first sip burns, then settles warm in my chest, then I go to meet the women. I plop onto an armchair near them. “Is there a dress code here?”
“Maybe there should be,” one of the women says coolly.
I clutch my heart and gasp dramatically.
Neither of them laugh.
Okay, soulmates we aren’t. That’s fine. Long distance is a pain anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t be in a sweatshirt.
The women have that polished businesswomen look: pearl earrings and matte lipstick and perfect manicures.
“Where are you two from?”
“DC.”
“Ah.” I try to appear knowledgeable. DC is one of the few places I don’t know well, since it doesn’t have an NHL team. “You’ve probably seen the White House.”
The two women give me flat looks.
“And the, uh, white pointy thing.”
“The Washington Monument?”
“Possibly.”
“The Washington Monument,” the woman says sternly.
“Cool. Now I know.”
“He would remember that,” the brunette tells the blonde.
They both giggle.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
