Coming back to my senses, I shut my laptop and hightail it into the humid bathroom.
Placing both hands on the sink after I shut the door behind me, I take deep, slow breaths. I stare at my flustered, pink complexion in the mirror, though it’s still fogged from his shower. Why is he getting to me like this? I’ve known him for YEARS. He has always been attractive, kind, and my best friend. The one man in my corner. The one who showed me what a man is supposed to be—completely opposite of the revolving door of men Mama had. Including my father, whoever he is.
He has seen through every man I’ve dated. Including Cheater Dank Nose Daniel. Braxton warned me that something wasn’t right. He told me to be careful.
And he was right, as usual.
Braxton has always been the man in my life. Consistent, steady, and strong. I mean, what other 15 year old boy would shed his jacket to cover up a girl’s blood-stained pants?
A slow ache spreads across my stomach, and I curse under my breath. It’s like thinking about it brought it on. No, I knew my period was coming, but couldn’t it have waited until I got back home?
I wipe the makeup off my face, brush through my hair, undress, and step into the shower, hoping the heat of the water will bring a soothing calmness to my body and brain.
The pressurized stream does its magic, and in the clarity of the water that’s hotter than hell itself, I realize something: my hormones are on overdrive. They are buzzing around in my body quicker than a hummingbird. That’s why the thought of Braxton is making me feel things. Of course, I’ve always felt things, but not this intense. It’s because of my period and that thought alone brings a tinge of relief to my worries.
It’ll all pass in a few days, and I’ll be back to normal. No more of these I’ll-die-if-I-can’t-make-you-mine feelings. No, sir. I’ll be back to my regular he’s-hot-but-I-can-control-myself feelings.
I take a long shower. Longer than my usual twenty minutes.
Knowing the source of my outrageous feelings, I am confident enough to shut the water off and begin my nightly routine.
I wrap the large towel around my body and tuck it securely at the top.
Shoot.
We only have one room, and this time, there is no upstairs or downstairs. And I can’t sleep in my makeup or I’ll have a massive breakout in the morning.
He’s your best friend. And though you are in love with him, you can’t hope for anything more despite what your hormones say,I tell myself through slow breaths.He isn’t going to judge you. He saw you the morning you left for this trip. It’s okay.
Feeling more at ease, I decide it’s time to get dressed and then exit my little bathroom safe haven.
I look around for my clothes. Where are they?
Realization slaps me in the face, leaving my cheeks hot and burning: I forgot my clothes in my rush to the safety of a shirtless-Braxton-free bathroom.
Taking a few steps to the door, I place my ear against it to listen for him. Turns out, it’s a bit harder to hear from in here than out in the room. After a moment of concentration, I still don’t hear him.
“Braxton!” I call his name out. No response. I yell his name two more times to no avail. I crack the door open just enough to stick my head out. He isn’t in the room.
Wrapped snugly in my towel, I make a dash for my suitcase (remind me why I chose the far side of the room again?) and start digging for my pajamas. Once I’ve secured the package, I jet back to the bathroom. I have no idea when he will walk back in.
I dress hastily, then exit the bathroom for good.
I examine the room. My side is a mess, clothes are thrown haphazardly, which, to my defense, is a result of the clothing heist that took place moments ago. Braxton’s side is organized, his shoes lined up by color against the wall. I sit down at the desk where I was working before Braxton interrupted me with his sexy shirtless-ness. A note in his neat handwriting rests on my pink laptop. Why couldn’t I have been blessed with the natural ability to write in script?
The note read:Gone to the gym. Be back in an hour or so. -Brax.
The downside to his handwriting is that a person needs a magnifying glass to read it. On another note, why in the world would Braxton go to the gym right after showering? A minuscule part of my brain hopes he went because he couldn’t cope with the idea of me in the shower. That his brain broke the same way mine did while he was showering.
But that’s just my menstrual flow talking.
I relax, knowing I have fifteen minutes to myself at the very least if he left right after I got into the shower. I contemplate texting Lorelei and Lucy back as I told them I would earlier, but I decide I want to settle into the large, cozy bed with an Agatha Christie read. I light the orange Pumpkin Pickin’ candle that I brought from home that’s sitting on the desk before falling into bed.
It’s been a long day, and my body just wants to rest and forget about my confusing, enhanced feelings for Braxton, seeing Finley again as the stupid prince spilled my secrets, Mama and her issues, and lastly…Daniel. The man this whole road trip was planned around. I’ve done a great job of pretending I’m not hurting. It was only six months, after all. I blink away the tears pooling in my eyes before turning my brain off.
I crack open my book and lose myself inThe Mysterious Affair at Styles.
Chapter Sixteen
