Joyce:AND???
Francis:She slammed the door in my face and said,“Some things must be washed with holy water.”
Mrs. Higgins:Oh my goodness.
Miss Lacey:Scandalous. Absolutely scandalous. (Does anyone know where Sloane bought that red dress? I need it for the spring show.)
57
Caveman Instincts
Cohen
If there were a world championship for sleep deprivation, I’m pretty sure Sloane and I would’ve taken home the gold.
I should be wrecked.
I should be a zombie dragging myself toward the coffee machine, begging for mercy.
And yet—as I watch Sloane in the lodge’s breakfast room—I feel like the damn king of the world.
She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized baby-blue sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, exposing the exact spot on her neck where I left a mark last night—one I hope is still visible. Her hair is half up in a messy pencil bun, she’s not wearing a hint of makeup, and she looks devastating. Easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Especially because I know exactly why she has those faint purple shadows under her eyes.
And I know why she’s moving with that tiny stiffness, like every muscle in her body was pushed past its limit.
We didn’t sleep.
At all.
We talked a little, groaned a lot, and “evened the score” at least three times. Maybe four.
I lost count around four a.m., when she shoved me against the headboard and made me forget my own name.
“Stop looking at me like I’m breakfast, Becker,” she mutters without turning around, drowning her black coffee in what has to be an illegal amount of sugar.
“I can’t help it,” I say. “I’m still hungry.”
She turns, shoots me a look that’s half warning and half promise, and hands me a cup.
“Drink. We need caffeine if we want to survive Aunt Tina.”
I scan the room. Apparently, we’re not the only ones who had… an eventful night.
The Elm Hollow Mountain breakfast hall looks like the set of a survivor movie.
At the table by the window sit Roxanne and Dave. They look like they got hit by a freight train. Roxanne’s hair—usually a lion’s mane—resembles an electrified bird’s nest. Dave has scratches down his back, visible above the collar of his T-shirt.
They’re arguing under their breath about jam, but they’re holding hands under the table with a grip tight enough to turn both their knuckles white.
“I’d bet a hundred chocolates they absolutely destroyed their room,” Sloane whispers.
“I’m not taking that bet,” I reply. “I’m pretty sure those noises came from their chalet.”
A few tables down, Lucy and Lars sit together.
Lucy is glowing, even though she yawns every three seconds. Lars watches her eat cereal like she’s the eighth wonder of the world.
