Wendy laughs against me. She moves in even closer, and her arm wraps across my stomach.
She breathes me in and sighs.
I don’t want to talk about the rules or expiration date. What just happened and the emotions I felt changed things for me, and I think it did for her too. I don’t think either of us understands what this relationship really means.
She kisses my chin and slides out of bed. “Be right back.”
I stare at the ceiling and listen to water running. The lights from the balcony cast a soft glow.
Her phone lights up on the nightstand.
The screen flashes. A preview of an image pops up.
It’s a photo of her with a guy on a beach. His hand is on her ass, and she’s kissing him, laughing. Her hair is longer than it is now.
Another message follows it.
Adam
I miss you, Wendy. So fucking much. Can’t stop thinking about you, us, and what we had. I want you back.
It stays lit for five seconds before the screen goes dark.
The bathroom door opens, and Wendy walks back, wearing one of my shirts. She doesn’t look at her phone. She climbs into bed and tucks herself under my arm.
I pull her as close as I can.
“Stay for a while,” I say.
“I’d like that.” She leans forward and kisses me.
Her breathing evens out, and I pull the covers over us.
Her ex didn’t choose her, and it broke her, and now he’s trying to crawl back.
But I’m just as guilty. She saw the real me. She just doesn’t know my real name.
I don’t think Wendy would like Dyson Banks. I’m not even fucking sure I do anymore.
chapter sixteen
Wendy
Iwake up in my room with swollen lips and the smell of Carter’s skin still on me. My thighs are sore, and every place he’s been aches. I’m smiling before I’m fully awake.
The last week has been a blur of Carter and me pretending we’re not doing this. We’ve had sex four times, and each orgasm strips away another layer of the wall I built after Adam. I keep expecting the excitement to fade, but it hasn’t. I don’t know why Carter ended up here, but I’m glad he did.
Ten before seven, I’m showered and behind the front desk. A cancellation email sits in the inbox from a couple who booked the Pelican Room for the week of July 8, which is exactly two weeks away. I refund them every penny and subtract the amount from the projected income column in my spreadsheet. The gap between what money the business has and what we need grows wider each day. I close the laptop before I get upset again. At this point, I need a miracle.
At the thought, I glance down at the drawer where I’ve stuffed the letters from Coastal Heritage. Tonight, I need to dispose of them before Gran finds them and decides to let this place go.
Rose is already in the kitchen, working on French toast. The smell of vanilla fills the lobby, and I can imagine the thick slices of brioche soaking in a bowl of batter while the griddle sizzles. I move toward the kitchen to say hello.
“Morning, Rose.”
She’s wearing a flower in her hair today. It’s bright pink against her dark hair, and it suits her skin tone perfectly. I hope I look half as good as her at her age.
“Morning, honey. You know what Gale needs? A boyfriend. I think it’s time everyone else tries to start setting her up on dates.”
