Except two.
One next to Maya.
The other next to Nolan.
Jeremy speeds up, acting like he’s going for the last damn cronut on Earth, throws himself into the open seat by Maya, sprawls like a Roman emperor, and then?—
Finger guns.
“Hey!” I whisper-shout, glaring at him.
Unbothered, he grins then tips his head toward the only seat left and says, “May the sexual tension be ever in your favor.”
I want to murder him, strangle him with his complimentary blanket.
I want to teleport.
I want to crawl out of my skin.
I don’t.
I breathe.
Because that’s what you do when your friend double-crosses you and you’re about to sit beside the man who fingered you into temporary amnesia.
I glance back at Jeremy. He smirks that smug, sparkling bastard.Fuck him.
Maya elbows him but does nothing to help.
Fine.
I can handle this.
I, Rorie Adams, marketing professional and vaguely responsible adult, will hold my head high and spend sixteen hours trapped beside the walking identity crisis that is Carl/Nolan Rhodes, aka, monumental mistake.
Except—God help me—I’m not even sure it was a mistake.
I exhale, slap on the most neutral face I can find in my feelings toolbox, and make my way toward the seat.
Nolan doesn’t move.
Doesn’t smirk.
Doesn’t blink.
Just watches.
“Is this seat taken?” My voice is crisp and civil.
He gestures to the seat beside him like we’re strangers instead of two people who share a complicated, semi-anonymous emotional bond and an unfortunately unforgettable bathroom history.
Totally normal.
Totally fine.
Just me.
Him.
