The loveseat is exactlyas uncomfortable as it looks.
I shift for the fifth time in as many minutes, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my spine feel like it’s being slowly compressed into a pretzel. My feet hang over one armrest, my neck is jammed against the other, and the cushions have that particular density that suggests they were stuffed with reclaimed gym mats sometime during the Carter administration.
Phoenix has been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. The water cut off ten minutes ago, but she hasn’t emerged. Probably processing whatever existential crisis my naked body triggered in her.
God.I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst across my vision. Of all the terrifying things that could have happened today—and there were plenty of candidates, given that we nearly died in a plane crash—Phoenix seeing me naked somehow manages to top the list.
The bed creaks, and I resist the urge to look over at Atticus. Maybe if I keep my eyes closed and breathe steadily enough, he’ll think I’m asleep and leave me alone.
“You’re not fooling anyone.”
No such luck.
“I’m tired,” I say without opening my eyes. “It’s been a long day.”
“It has.” The bed creaks again. He’s probably sprawling even more obnoxiously across the mattress. “Near-death experiences tend to do that.”
“Goodnight, Atticus.”
“I’m just wondering if you’re ever planning to tell us why there seems to be a stick up your ass sideways? Or should we just keep pretending we haven’t noticed?”
My jaw tightens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really.” His voice is flat with disbelief. “So you didn’t practically have a stroke when the captain mentioned this town. You weren’t white-knuckling your way through that truck ride like you were heading to your own execution. And you definitely haven’t been acting like someone pissed in your cornflakes ever since we landed.”
“I’m tired?—“
“You said that already.” The sheets rustle as he shifts. “Helen Keller wouldn’t miss your mood or that sour look on your face, Mason. And Phoenix is going to spiral completely if you don’t get your shit together.”
My eyes snap open despite my determination to ignore her. “Since when do you care?”
“What?”
I turn my head just enough to see him. Atticus is propped against the headboard, looking infuriatingly relaxed in his silk pajamas. His green eyes are piercing in the lamplight, making it hard for me to hold his gaze.
“Since when do you care about Phoenix’s emotional state? Or mine, for that matter. We’re pawns in your publicity game, remember? Commodities.”
Something flickers across his face. “That’s what you think this is?”
“That’s what you said it was. Business arrangement. Fake dating to boost ticket sales.” I sit up, ignoring the protest of my cramped muscles. “So why does it matter to you if I’m having a bad day?”
Atticus is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice has lost that teasing edge.
“I care about Phoenix.”
“You barely know her.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. I prefer to think of time in terms of quality over quantity,” he drawls. “But she cares about you, so I do too. It really is that simple.”
I stare at him, searching for the lie. But he just smiles back at me, wide-eyed and guileless as a newborn baby.
It doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it makes me angrier.
“So what, you’re her self-appointed protector now? Another alpha who thinks he knows what’s best for her?”
“I’m someone who noticed that her assistant—her best friend, probably her only real friend—has been acting like he’s walking over his own grave since we got here. And I’m trying to figure out if that’s something that’s going to hurt her.”
Goddamn alphas who think they know everything. I look away, focusing on the window seat where my bag sits, neatly packed and carefully positioned as to not get in the way in this tiny room.
