Page 103 of Falling

Sunday until Saturday.

That’s all we get. That’s all the time I get with her until the new year and things start to get more serious for the both of us. That’s why when we’re on the plane and Wren falls asleep, I make a plan of what to do to make this a good vacation. A much-deserved break for her. I book us in for massages, hikes, and saunas, and I look around for a nice restaurant. I’m really cutting deep into my savings for this, but I need to do something nice. She’s been on edge since her showcase, and if I can erase that worry for a few days, then I’ll do anything I can.

On the drive to the airport, on the plane, and even when we drive from the airport to the hotel, we both ignore what happened last night. I shouldn’t have gotten annoyed with her, but I’m getting tired of pretending I don’t want her. I’m tired of her ignoring the obvious fact that I want her for real.

I don’t want to ruin these next few days because after this, we could be done. If my first few games go well and she qualifies, we’ll have no reason to be doing this anymore. She’ll go back to skating regularly and I’ll go back to playing.

It’ll be over.

By the time we check into the five-star hotel, we’re both exhausted. We throw our bags down and settle in. She’s the kind of person to unpack all of her stuff immediately while I usually live out of my suitcase for the first two days.

This room is a lot bigger than the one that we stayed in at the gala. Instead of a massive bedroom, the room is smaller sized, but it has two huge bathrooms on each side of it. The kitchen and living room are connected in another room, with the refrigerator filled with drinks and snacks.

We spend the first two days in a haze, going through all the things that I booked for us to do. We go for massages, mostly for Wren. We spend our days out in Palm Springs, visiting the most touristy places we can, and we spend our nights binging bad movies and eating room service, talking about everything and nothing.

I could get used to this—the two of us sitting in robes, eating ice cream, slouching on the couch, and watching movies. Sometimes, she talks about whatever book she’s reading, and I’m only half listening. I just like watching the way her mouth moves. I’d let her talk about a ten-book fantasy series if it meant I could watch her talk.

This morning, we decided to go down to the beach to read. I’mstillmaking my way through the book Wren got me, but I brought my trusty hockey book as backup. I’m doing a lot more staring than I am reading. I'm lying on my back, slightly angled toward Wren, who’s lying on her stomach, her head propped up on her bag while she reads. The sun has blessed her with faint freckles along her back and arms, and I'm fucking obsessed with every single one of them.

She’s wearing a lilac bikini with a white knitted cover-up. She looks ethereal. I don’t think I could tear my eyes away even if I wanted to. Being with her is like watching the ocean crash against the shore. It's like looking straight into the fucking sun.

“Can you stop ogling?” she asks without looking up from her book.

I pick up mine and pretend to read it. “I’m not ogling, I’m reading.”

“Really?” She turns to me, squinting her eyes, her head resting on her hands. “What are you reading?”

“The McDavid Effect.” She snorts, smothering her laugh in her arms. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s not funny. It’s… typical, that’s all.”

“What’s typical about a hockey player reading about hockey?”

“Everything.” I roll my eyes and grab the book out of her hands, and she tries to reach for it.

“And what are you reading?Romance? Isn’t this the book that Kennedy got for Christmas?”

“Yeah, she’s letting me borrow it since she has a million copies. Give it back.” She tries to reach for it again and looks adorable while trying to. I push my hand up higher so she can’t see it. I skim the page she was reading and gasp loudly.

“Amelia Wren Hackerly, this is straight-up porn.” Her face turns even redder than it was earlier from the sun.

“It’snot. Jasmine is a great author. She writes about her own real experiences with love. It’s entertaining. You could learn a thing or two,” she retorts as she snatches the book out of my hand, putting it into her bag.

“It’s filthy is what is,” I say, and she shakes her head with a soft laugh.

“It'sinspiring,” she murmurs before turning her sun-kissed face away from me and resting back on her arms. I can’t even argue with her anymore because the sight in front of me is so fucking worthit.

“Why don’twe go out tonight?” I suggest later that night after we’re both tired from hiking on the Araby trail. I stand over her from the back of the couch while she lies down, her gorgeous eyelashes resting against her cheeks.

“I’m exhausted, Miles. We’ve done, like, everything on everyone’s bucket listeverin the last few days,” she says, sighing deeply. She opens her eyes and pushes herself up on her elbows.

“Don’t you want to go out for some real food? We’ve been living off room service for four days,” I say as I walk over to her side of the couch, and her eyes follow me.

“Aren’t we going out on New Year’s Eve? We can wait until then.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to be packed with people,” I say as I crouch down next to her, batting my eyelashes at her. “Don’t you want to go out somewhere nice? Somewhere where we can eatgoodfood. Just us. Just one night, Wren.”

“Jesus, you’re so fucking dramatic.” She groans before standing up.

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