Twenty-eight
Becca
The next morning, the cameras are back, getting footage of Preston and me in our room, eating breakfast from a tray on the bed. We’re both wearing big white bathrobes—handed to us by Mustache Dan as soon as the crew got here. I’ve got my Snoopy pajamas on underneath (at some point during the night, I decided to finally change, hoping it would help me sleep, though it didn’t) and Preston has some flannel pajama pants underneath his. All of which is more comfy-looking than sexy, but for some reason, the bathrobes really do make it look like we got it on. Not to mention that neither of us had a chance to tame our bed head before the crew showed up, which will probably be interpreted as sex hair.
I don’t love any of this, but I tell myself that it doesn’t matter if people think we had sex. It doesn’t matter ifNatethinks we had sex. He never really cared about me. He kept things from me and he lied to me and he said he’d have my back, but he left me alone here, swimming with the sharks. Everyone does that, and he’s no exception.
And I’m no longer numb. I’m pissed.
He’s not here with the crew this morning, but I wish he was. Maybe I want him to think Preston and I had sex.That what Nate and I had didn’t mean anything to me.That losing it didn’t rip me into irreparable shreds more than Rob ever could.
Probably I want him to believe this because I want so desperately for it to be true. (Well, not the Preston and I having sex part. I’m more than good with my decision there.)
I’m trying to keep up the amiable breakfast chat with Preston over our traditional Irish breakfast, but I’m stabbing at the bacon rasher like I’m trying to kill the pig all over again. Preston doesn’t seem to notice—he’s too busy trying not to look disgusted at the black pudding. No judgment from me there; pig’s blood congealed into a sausage form isn’t for me, either.There are limits to my adventurous palate.
After breakfast, we change into actual clothes—jeans and an off the shoulder, bohemian top for me, and the usual “Harlequin-book-cover rogue” outfit for him—and we’re taken in a limo back to the main hotel which has been my prison for the last several days. Mustache Dan directs me immediately to the interview room the minute we get back.
I steel myself to dodge a bunch of questions about the sex I didn’t have last night, then walk into the room—
And there’s Nate. So gorgeous, his faded t-shirt clinging just the right amount to his toned torso. His curly hair that I once gripped so tight is tied back. His lashes dark and long over deep brown eyes.
My heart squeezes, my body flushing. My hands twitch at my side, like they remember being on him and want nothing more than to be back there. Every goddamn time I see him, it’s like this.
He looks at me, his face so impassive I might as well be some woman he’s never seen before, then looks back at the cameraman, murmuring something as he points at the decorative screen (where the hell do they find all these things?) that will be behind me.Then he gestures to the seat.
Like I’m nothing.
Like he got what he wanted from me and he finally doesn’t care anymore if I know. Maybe he’s no longer worried that I’ll tell about us. Maybe he’s sure no one will believe me.
I channel that instinctive rush of anger, which feels so much better than despair.
I sit primly on the edge of the seat, trying to make my own face as neutral as his. I may be pissed as hell, but I don’t want him to see it.
“Becca, hi,” he says calmly, sitting in the folding chair to the side of the camera. “Let’s get started.”
“Sounds great.” I cross my legs, rest my hands on my knee.
“So last night was your night in the DallianceTower with Preston.”
“It sure was.” I manage to sound nicely coy.
His lips twitch up at the sides, but his eyes don’t match that amusement. “Don’t forget, restate the question with your answer.”
As if I haven’t been interviewed ten thousand times already and know the damn rules.
“Sure thing,” I say. “I just didn’t realize that was a question.”
That little smile looks frozen on his face. “Was last night your DallianceTower date with Preston?”
“Last night was my DallianceTower date with Preston.” I try to beam, like the very thought of that night of boring conversation and turning in at eleven PM fills me with radiance. After a half-second, I realize I’m probably giving more of a psychotic “black widow exulting over murdering her mate” vibe and take it down a notch.
Nate eyes me for a second, then looks down at his clipboard. “And how was it to get that special alone time with Preston?”
His words so even. Like asking me about my overnight doesn’t faze him any more than if he were asking me about my Irish breakfast.
“Getting to spend that time alone with Preston wasamazing,” I say. “A relationship really needs time to become something more, and getting that quality time together was exactly what we needed.” I’m pretty sure I sound like every one of the other girls, gushing after their date. Which is exactly what I’m going for.
Dreamy. Starry-eyed. In love with a fucking prince.
