I nod. “They were good to me.”
She takes them from my hands, and for the first time, I think Irina and I have found common ground. At least the woman can appreciate good taste in shoes.
“You might be smelly,” she says, “but you were really something tonight. I perhaps have to put money on you.”
“I’m not a racehorse,” I tell her as she slinks out of the room with the garment bag over her shoulder.
“Tell that to Wes. He won the pot last year and went on a two-week trip to Bali.”
“What?” I ask, but she’s already gone. “What pot?”
Well, that’s just great. Not only am I dating a man who’s dating seven other women, but I guess the crew is betting on us too. Delightful. I sit down at the desk by my window with my sketch pad, the Statue of Liberty glowing through the nighttime haze, and I write his room number over and over again. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Until eventually, it doesn’t look like numbers at all. Just an abstract pattern.
I don’t even have to look to know that Mallory or Zeke is outside guarding the hallway. There’s no way I’m getting out of this room and making it all the way to Henry’s without getting stopped. After our disappearance tonight, I’m sure we’re being even more heavily guarded than usual.
With his walkie-talkie dead and mine very nearly, I’m left with no way to contact Henry. I wish they hadn’t taken the phones out of this room. Surely that’s some kind of insurance liability. If I had my phone, I would curl up in bed and call him and we would talk all night until our breathing became heavy and we just fell asleep to the sound of one another.
I try washing my face. Eight twenty-six. I try pulling my hair into a ponytail. Eight twenty-six. I braid it. Eight twenty-six. It doesn’t look good. Eight twenty-six. I settle for a sloppy bun instead. I try a Korean face mask. Eight twenty-six. I lie in bed. Eight twenty-six. But none of it works. Eight twenty-six.
I can’t do this. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I can’t stop thinking about the chance to spend a whole night with him without a camera in sight.
That’s it. I jump out of bed and put on my gold glitter Kate Spade Keds and a hoodie. Slowly, I creak my door open to peer out into the hallway and find Zeke sitting a few doors down, slumped against the wall, dead asleep. I was fully prepared to blackmail him again just so I could make it to the elevators, but Lady Liberty must be watching over me. If I had a cell phone, I’d snap a picture to send to Anna so she could see how dopey he looks.
With the coast clear, I step out into the hallway, closing my door slowly to stop it from slamming, and tiptoe past him to the elevator. Just as I’m about to hit the button to go five flights up, I stop myself. The dinging sound. It could wake Sleeping Beauty back there, so I opt for the stairs.
As I lean over the rail and take a nice long look at the never-ending staircase, I remind myself that just a few weeks ago, I lived in a third-floor walk-up. By the time I make it to the eighth floor, though, I’m a little sweatier than I was, but I’m relieved to find no producers guarding this floor. I feel like I’m in a video game trying to dodge zombies, when really all I’m trying to do is hang out with a guy I like. Somehow, this show has mentally reverted me to sixteen and I’m scared of being caught inside a boy’s room.
After one knock, the door of room 826 opens to reveal Henry, barefoot with his shirt partially unbuttoned and his tie dangling between his fingers. He smirks. “For a minute there, I was worried you might just assume I was very specifically obsessed with one part of your back.”
He reaches for my hand and pulls me inside.
As the door closes behind me, I slide the tie from his other hand and run my fingers over the shadowed stripes. The silk melts beneath my touch, and I flip the tie over to find the label. “Fancy. Hermès.”
“It was a gift,” he says.
“From your mom?” I ask.
He tilts his head to the side. “Sabrina.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I tell him, “wearing a tie from your ex on a date with your new—person.”
He takes a step closer to me. “Not a fan of labels?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call myself your girlfriend,” I tell him. As I’m talking, he takes another step toward me and dips his head down so that my lips brush his on that last word.
“This feels pretty serious to me,” he says, his voice husky as his fingers dig into my waist.
“I don’t know,” I say, breathless from his touch. “Feels a little crowded.”
He leans his temple against my shoulder so that his breath is hot on my neck. “I want to make so many promises to you right now. Almost as badly as the things I want to do to you.”
I feel like I know two versions of him. On-Screen Henry and Private Henry, but it’s as though the two versions can’t even talk to each other or share information. On-Screen Henry is sweet and flirtatious, but I never fully know where I stand with him. Private Henry is a little rougher around the edges, but he never leaves me wondering.
I know what I should do. I should ask him where I stand. I should ask him if he feels just as strongly for Addison or Sara Claire or one of the other women and if this is all just some dance we have to get over with and if in the end, we’re going to give this a real shot. But for once, I want to stop worrying. I want to let go of all the things I can’t control and just be here in this moment with Henry.
I wrap my arms around his waist. “How would you have made it different?” I ask.
He picks his head up, his deep brown eyes lingering on my lips. “What do you mean?”
