After she reviews the benefits of club level—will definitely be using the complimentary cocktail service—and we have our room keys, Lucy throws out an encouraging smile. “Good luck, Mr. Foley.”
So awkward. “Er. Thanks, Lucy.”
“That girl was super weird,” Joss whispers as we walk toward the elevators. “Why do you need luck?” She mashes the up button. “And why would you give them an accidental credit card?”
Don’t look at her. Might laugh. “For sure. So weird.”
“Is she heightist, do you think?”
Laughter leaks out, and then I’m snickering as I board the elevator, pressing my palm over my eyes.
She cocks her head. “You have a nice voice. Maybe she’s a huge Tolkien fan and was picturing you as a hobbit.”
Or she’s trying to figure out how Iaccidentallykissed you.
NBD.
“That’s definitely it.”
Our suite is on the ninth floor. The room isexcessive.
Jocelyn’s jaw drops at the sheer luxury. “Asher. Is this real life?”
She abandons her suitcase and explores the lavish surroundings while I roll our bags into our respective bedrooms, separated by a huge living space.
“I want to live in this bathroom!” Her voice echoes out from the room in question, all veined white marble and trendy gold fixtures.
When I peek inside, she’s standing in the soaker tub, fully clothed, smiling. “This suite is bigger than my whole house.”
“A shoebox is bigger than your house.”
She laughs and stretches a hand for me to help her out of the tub, then immediately skips into the closest bedroom and leaps on the bed, arms and legs splayed. “If we didn’t have these wedding activities, we could throw a hotel party.”
I lean on the doorjamb, hesitant to come closer. Don’t love the sight of her on that bed. Weird things are happening in my pants. Hot things. Hard things.
She rises to her elbows, mischief passing over her features. “Guess we still could. How would the bride feel about post–rehearsal dinner shenanigans?”
“Eh. Grace isn’t really a shenanigans sort of girl.”
Mock disgust wrinkles up Joss’s brow. “What the hell did you see in her, then?”
I shrug. Can’t even remember. Was so long ago.
Her expression softens, and she sits up. “It’s her loss. You know that, right?”
“I’mfine, Jocelyn. It’s all water under the bridge.” I hold out a hand to pull her off the bed—for my own sanity—but she doesn’t take it.
Instead, she stares into my eyes. Color leaches into her cheeks. So pretty. So, so pretty. “You don’t say my name like other people do.”
I scratch my neck. “I don’t?”
“No.” She stands, attention lingering on my face a few more seconds before she turns toward the balcony door. “There’s something in it. Something different.”
Probably theLword.
I don’t say it, obviously. Would destroy this fragile peace we’ve created. But this feeling won’t go away. It’s scratching wildly at its cage, trying to get out, all heat mixed with tenderness and affection. I don’t want to label it. Don’t want to admit it. Don’t want to let it out.
I can’t fall in love with her.
