“Yeah, to her face! But I’m notreallyokay with her leaving. Do you not understand how friendships work at all?”
“I guess not.” Colton’s lips quirk as his hands keep moving, working their magic. The tension slips away with each stroke of his fingers. “But someone did tell me that what we want out of life can change with new experiences, and the best thing we can do is follow that instinct wherever it leads. Don’t you want that for Inez?”
I scowl at him and tug my foot out of his grasp. “Don’t use my own words against me. It makes you look like an asshole.”
He laughs then, loud and invigorating, and I’m relieved the sound doesn’t hammer in my head anymore. My favorite smile of his—the big, broad one he saves only for me—stretches across his face. I lean forward, keeping distance between us for any prying eyes, and run my thumb quickly over his dimple. His eyes soften, and it takes all my self-control not to kiss him. We hold each other’s gaze, the warmth in his eyes making it hard to breathe, like I sunk under the water’s surface for too long.
I push out of the hot tub. “Let’s move on. I’m getting overheated.”
We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon swimming in the different pools, chatting about everything and nothing, before heading back to town for one of those beautiful Italian lunches with as many hours as there are courses.
There’s a shift when we head back to the hotel, like we both know we’re walking toward a moment that will change everything. I’m not hungover anymore. There’s nothing stopping us from exploring this tension between us.
After all of our rushing and our inability to keep our hands to ourselves, I expect us to fall into bed as soon as we walk through the door. Instead, we stand in the middle of the room, looking around like the answer on how to move forward will be written across the wall in bold letters.
Colton clears his throat. “So, um, we should probably shower after the pools.”
I nod. “Yeah. Of course. That makes sense.”
The shower’s even smaller than the one in our apartment, barely big enough for one person to squeeze into, and I’m grateful for that fact right now.
“You first?” we both say and then awkwardly laugh. This is painful.
“Please, go ahead, Colt.” I need a minute to put myself together.
He pops back out a few minutes later with a towel slung low on his hips while he rubs another one over his wet hair.
“Sorry, I should have brought my clothes.” He winces, and I know it isn’t a ploy to stand in front of me practically naked.
I let my eyes run down the panes of his chest before grabbing my own clothes and sprinting into the bathroom.
Why is this so awkward?
We both want this and know the other wants it, too. We’recomfortable with where the relationship’s going and know what it means. It should be a no-brainer.
But now, faced with the possibility—and without the liquid courage of last night—I’m freaking out.
After my own quick shower, I comb my hair out as I gaze at the tiny bathroom mirror with unseeing eyes. He’s on the other side of the door, skin probably still damp. And I’m here in nothing but the thin hotel towel that barely fits around my curves.
My clothes are right there. I can put them on, walk out of this room dressed and put together, like I wasn’t in here imagining all the filthy things I want to do to that man. They could be a line of defense, like my dress had been the other night. A layer of protection as I fumble through this awkward moment.
Or, I can walk out in this towel like he did—okay, slightly less innocently—and get what I’ve spent the past month—okay, the past year—craving.
Before I can second guess myself, I fling the door open, my clothes forgotten on the bathroom counter.
22
QUINN
I head straightfor the full-length mirror, positioning myself in front of it as I comb the hair I already combed in the bathroom. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I keep my eyes away from him, but my stomach jumps when I hear his fingers stop clacking against his keyboard.
“Chaos?”
“Hm?”
“Where are your clothes?”
