Page 139 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

He lets out a nervous giggle. At least I can make one of them blush.

I look back at Paul one more time. He’s still watching me, like he’s trying to solve something.

I smile, because fear cannot be allowed to have the last word.

I go into the smaller bedroom—my room—and shut the door behind me.

The second the door shuts, my legs go weak. I lean back against the wood and let my head thump once, softly.

“Fuck,” I whisper. Then, because once didn’t do anything, “Fuck.”

The room is exactly how I left it. Suitcase half-open by the chair, clothes spilling out. Ring light tucked badly under shorts because camming has lost its appeal right now. Yesterday’s underwear at the foot of the bed.

I push away from the door and stand in the middle of the room with both hands on the towel around my waist.

Breathe. Paul is here. Breathe. Paul is here with his friend—boyfriend? No, impossible.

Paul is here I just walked in dripping wet from the pool like the start of a porn scene.

I close my eyes. Not spiraling.

I lock the bedroom door, then unlock it because locking feels like panic. Then I lock it again because privacy is not panic.

The room feels smaller now that they’re outside it. Not because they’re trying to come in, but they could. More because I can hear their voices, low and muffled, on the other side of the wall. The house no longer feels like mine, pretend or otherwise.

Paul looked worse than I expected. Not bad exactly, which would be easier. He looked undone. Like somebody had cracked the surface and all the controlled parts were slipping. Vulnerable, maybe. Less impossible.

That’s being hopeful. I’m hopeful because I’m scared, but I have to be smarter than scared.

Kev.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Of course he’s already texted. I think I’m his only client.

STILL BREATHING?

Paul is here.

DEFINE HERE.