Page 80 of Crushed By Love

I’ll be a couple days early for the dorm move in but a few nights in Boston won’t be so bad. I’ll figure something out.

“I already booked you a hotel across from campus for tonight and tomorrow night and a car to take you there from the airport.”

My chest clenches and I roll over to face him. He’s still looking up, still in profile, and I rub my hand across his abdomen, my fingers splaying out on his sleepy-warm skin. “Thank you,” I say softly, wondering what it all means, because he took the time to make sure I have what I need, even if it is two days earlier than I’d expected.

Don’t read too much into it.

It probably doesn’t mean anything other than he’s keeping his word. He agreed to get me to school if I stayed through the hurricane with him, and now he’s holding up his end of the bargain. Simple as that. It has nothing to do with any actual romantic feelings. I may be his, but he’s not mine.

He’s not mine . . .

But what if he could be?

“You know,” I say slowly, summoning all my courage to ask what I need to ask right now. “We could stay here for a few more nights. We don’t have to leave yet.”

He sighs and sits up, my hand slipping from his chest. His bare back flexes with tense unspoken emotion and dread sinks in my chest. He stands and heads into the bathroom. “Sorry but I’ve got to get back,” is all he says, before he locks himself inside.

The subsequent hiss of the shower turning on makes me feel about two inches tall. He’s taking it without me. It’s the first shower he’s taken alone since we started hooking up.

Is he done with me?

I fist the sheets, angry with myself for caring so much. I knew what this was. He told me he doesn’t make love. Hell, the man didn’t even want to kiss me at first. I knew . . . but I still let myself believe it could be something more.

They don’t call it being a hopeless romantic for nothing.

Maybe it’s my age? Eighteen feels so old but I know it’s not. When I came here, I thought I had seen enough of people’s character to understand them but I’ve clearly not seen enough of people like Ethan King. I never should’ve opened my heart.

Does sex always do that? Does it make you feel things you don’t want to feel? If I have sex with people in college, will I fall for them too, or is Ethan special?

I can’t help but think he’s special. He’s different. I wanted him from the very first moment I saw him swimming laps in the pool. The wanting grew with every interaction we had, even though I told myself it wasn’t true, lied to myself about hating him. But there’s a fine line between love and hate, and with Ethan that line became invisible.

Tears stain the edges of my vision. Stupid, stupid tears. I should go to my guest room to get myself packed and ready. I should wash the tears away. But I don’t.

Something else comes over me. Something angry.

I go to his drawers instead, rifling through his things as quickly as I can, ignoring the instant guilt at invading his privacy. He may not be able to give me what I want—he’ll never love me—but maybe he can give me what I need.

Answers.

He doesn’t have a lot of personal items here and it’s quickly apparent that I might not find anything. This is only his summer bedroom, not where he really lives. Just like I’m only his hurricane girl. There are so many things about Ethan that I don’t know. He could have a new girlfriend back in the city. He could just be using me. Facts are, I don’t even know where he lives. Probably in some expensive New York City apartment somewhere, the kind of bachelor pad that is as masculine and cold as he is. I bet it has a penthouse view of everyone else below him. And I bet he brings women back there so he can fuck them instead of making love to them.

I rub at my tear-stained cheeks and dig through the bottom drawer of his nightstand, past the box of condoms, the random charger cables, until something familiar brushes against my fingers. A photograph. It’s tucked into the back corner of the drawer, almost like he doesn’t want anyone to know it’s there.

Guilt nearly stops me. Guilt and shame.

Guilt because I know better than to snoop like this. It’s an invasion, it’s immature, and I shouldn’t do it. And shame because I shouldn’t care so much about someone who doesn’t feel the same way about me.

But I can’t possibly let go of my curiosity now, not now that I have this hidden photograph at my fingertips. I pull it out, almost expecting something ordinary like a photo of his friends or maybe him and his brother, maybe even his real mother that I don’t know anything about because he won’t talk about her.

But no . . .

The couple in the photograph is stunning. A younger Ethan with his lips pressed to the cheek of a beautiful girl. She’s beaming at the camera. It’s not the way they’re dressed that is most startling, it’s not that her body is amazing, or that their embrace is clearly one of love.

It’s the way she looks.

She’s got long wavy red hair.

Big green eyes.

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