I should probably leave. Should go back to my hostel, put distance between us, think about what just happened. But when he opens his arms, I crawl into them, letting him tuck me against his side.
"Stay," he murmurs into my hair. "Please stay."
I should say no. I should have said no several times today already. But it’s a little too late for that.
Instead, I press my face into his chest and whisper, "I’d love to."
I wake to soft gray light filtering through the windows and the slow, even sound of Grant's breathing.
For a moment, I let myself just lie there, memorizing how it feels to be in his arms. The solid warmth of his body beneath my cheek, the weight of his arm around my waist, the scent of him surrounding me. It feels like a dream, like something too perfect to be real.
And that's the problem.
Because thisisn'treal. It can't be. Back home, he's my father's best friend. I'm the little girl he watched grow up. This—whatever happened between us in this beautiful, impossible bubble—it can't survive the reality of our lives.
I think about last night, about the incredible sex, about how he ordered amazing food and the best red wine I’ve ever had from the restaurant and we ate it in bed, sharing more travel stories and laughing.
God, I don’t want to leave, but I have to. This can’t happen again.
Carefully, so carefully, I extract myself from his embrace. He stirs but doesn't wake, and I freeze until his breathing evens out again. Then I slip out of bed, gathering my clothes from where they're scattered across the floor.
I dress in the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is a mess, my lips slightly swollen, my eyes too bright. I look like someone who just had the best night of her life.
Someone who's about to make a huge mistake if she doesn't leave right now.
I find a notepad on the desk and scrawl a quick message.
Thank you for last night. For everything. But I think we both know this was a beautiful mistake. Take care of yourself, Grant.
I stare at the words, hating how inadequate they are, how much they don't say. But what else can I write?I've been halfway in love with you since I was fourteen, and last night just made it so much worse?
I'm terrified that if I stay, I'll lose myself the way my mother did?
This was perfect, and that's exactly why it can never happen again?
I set the note on the pillow beside him and let myself take one last look. He's beautiful in sleep, his face relaxed, one arm stretched out toward the space where I'd been. My body aches with the urge to crawl back into bed, to wake him with kisses, to pretend we can have this. All of this.
But I can't.
I won't.
I slip out of the room as quietly as I can, easing the door shut behind me. The hallway is empty, the hotel still asleep, and I make it to the lobby without seeing anyone. The morning air is cool when I step outside, Florence just beginning to wake around me.
I should feel victorious. Empowered. After all, I just spent the night with the man I've wanted for years.
So why does it feel like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind in that gorgeous hotel room?
I hail a cab, giving the driver my hostel address. As the city slides past the window, I press my hand to my heart, willing it to slow down, willing the ache to subside.
It was one night. One perfect, impossible night.
And it's over.
It has to be.
Chapter 3
Emma
