After last night.
This is either the best or worst thing that could happen. I’m not sure which.
Because last night was supposed to be it. One night of having her completely, then letting her go. That was the deal I made with myself.
But now we’re here, soaked through, and I’m about to get a room with her.
And after what happened last night—after her running this morning—I should be careful.
I should put distance between us.
But when have I ever played it safe with Emma?
“Yeah,” I say, slinging my leg off the bike. “Let’s get out of this rain.”
4
EMMA
Bones approaches the front desk of the motel while I stand near the door, dripping onto the worn carpet and trying not to shiver. Bones’s leather jacket wasn’t enough—my clothes are soaked through. My hair is plastered to my skull, and I’m pretty sure my mascara has migrated somewhere south of my cheekbones. I probably look like an addict.
This is not how I pictured today going.
Then again, nothing about the last couple of days has gone according to plan.
The clerk—a woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a chain and a name tag that says BARB—looks up from her computer and takes in Bones’s soaked form with the expression of someone who’s seen it all and hates all of it equally.
“Help you?”
“Need a room,” Bones says.
“Uh, two rooms,” I call from my spot near the door.
Bones glances back at me, a muscle in his jaw flexing, then turns back to Barb. “Two rooms,” he repeats, like he’s humoring a toddler.
Barb, carved entirely out of managerial apathy, sniffs and starts tapping at her keyboard.
“We only have singles left.”
Bones sighs. “Two beds, then.”
She gives us a long, assessing look—somewhere betweenAre you running from the law?andPlease don’t bleed on the carpet.
“Smoking or non?”
“Non,” I say, right as Bones says, “Don’t care.”
Barb clicks her tongue like she’s judging us on a cosmic level. “Only have one non-smoking room left. King bed.”
Of course.
“What about the smoking—” I start, right as Bones pulls out his credit card and says, “We’ll take it.”
Barb’s eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t comment. She just swipes his card, prints the form, and slides it over for him to sign.
“Room 237,” she says, handing us the key card. “Up the stairs, end of the hall. Check-out’s at eleven.”
“Thanks,” Bones replies.
