“You're good at that,” I observe, sipping my water. “Turning it on and off.”
“I've had practice,” he says flatly. “Unlike you, who looks like she just got fucked six ways from Sunday.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?”
“It's an observation.”
I lean forward, “She wants to fuck you.”
If our server had eye-fucked him any harder, she would have left a puddle in the middle of the floor.
Beckham rolls his eyes. “No, she doesn't.”
“She was practically drooling.”
“I didn't notice,” he says, and the crazy thing is, I believe him. His eyes haven't left my face since we sat down, like I'm the only person in his orbit.
I go to open my mouth when two middle-aged men in plaid shirts and work boots enter the room, stomping snow from their feet. They take the table behind Beckham, their voices carrying easily.
“Roads are finally getting cleared,” one says. “Pete’s got the main highway almostdone.”
“Should be clear enough for people by one,” the other man replies. “Good thing too. Another front is coming off the lake in the morning.”
I watch Beckham's shoulders tense slightly at the news. The bubble we've been living in is about to pop. Reality is creeping back in, and I hate it.
Our food arrives, and I force myself to eat even though my appetite has suddenly vanished. Beckham demolishes his sandwich in record time, like he can't wait to get back on the road.
“Slow down,” I say, pushing my fries toward him. “You're eating like someone's going to take it away from you.”
He grabs a fry, dragging it through ketchup. “The sooner we get back, the better.”
“Why?” I challenge. “What's so urgent?”
His eyes meet mine, dark and serious. “The longer we stay, the more complicated this gets.”
“It's already complicated.”
“Then let's not make it worse.”
I finish my food in silence, my mind racing. I don't want this to end. Not yet. Not when I've barely scratched the surface of whatever this is between us.
After Beckham pays the bill, waving away my attempt to split it, we head toward the elevators. The lobby is bustling with activity as other stranded guests prepare to leave, the storm finally over.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and we step inside. As the doors close, I feel a heaviness settle in my chest. Twenty-four hours ago, I was praying for the storm to end. Now I'm wishing for another blizzard.
We walk down the hallway in silence, my key card readyin my hand. When we reach my door, I turn to face him, leaning against the wall.
“You okay?” he asks, frowning at whatever he sees on my face.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.” His attempt at humor falls flat.
I study him, taking in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his eyes keep darting down the hallway like he's expecting someone to catch us. He's on edge, already mentally back in the real world.
“So we'll never do it again?” I ask, unable to help myself.
His eyes darken, jaw tightening. “Don't push me.”
