“Right.” I clear my throat. “Of course.”
Ithasbeen a long day. Chasing Chloe around, swimming, hanging in the warm—sometimes hot—sunshine, socializing with his teammates and their friends and families.
And…this is dumb.
We don’t have to talk about my trip right now.
Itcanwait.
Still, I stand there for a moment, waiting for him to look up.
Wantingit so badly.
But he doesn’t.
So…I just turn and leave.
I watch a documentary, eat a bowl of popcorn, drink my cocktail—and his.
But he doesn’t emerge from his office, and when I go back down the hall to check on him, the door is shut.
I knock softly.
“Rhodes?”
Nothing.
I knock again, this time a little louder.
Still…nothing.
And when I try the handle, it doesn’t turn. Locked.
My stomach twists.
Because I know he’s in there.
I can feel it.
The silence greeting me isn’t empty.
It’s deliberate.
And something inside of me shrivels up and dies.
I stand there for another second, pain and humiliation prickling hot beneath my skin.
Then I turn around and go back to my room.
Not his room.
Mine.
And even though the space is full of memories—Chloe beside me, Rhodes bringing me soup, forcing me to rest. The first time he snuck in to kiss me, Chloe lying on the bed, kicking up her feet as I did my makeup. Rhodes stealing my pajamas so I’d sleep in his shirts. But, for the first time in months, those memories don’t feel good to think about.
Theyhurt.
And when I crawl into my bed—alone—I don’t feel hopeful.
