Page 48 of Stuck With the Best Man

I turn the tap on as hot as it will go, which, considering the questionable quality of this motel, isn’t really that hot. At least it fills the bathroom with enough steam for me to clear my congested thoughts.

I wash my hair with the tiny hotel samples and quietly hum the tune to an orchestral piece that we often warm up to in the studio.

When I turn off the tap and step out of the shower, I can hear the mumbling sound of the television in the room.

Man, this is so weird. I’m sharing a hotel room with a guy that I kissed once eleven months ago and then didn’t see again until he became my enemy at the company.

I’m sharing a hotel room with a man on the Board of Directors.

Also, a man who is apparently the best friend of Eva’s husband. A man who is, evidently, connected to me in a myriad of ways. It’s dizzying when I think too hard about it.

I don’t hate him. I hate that I’m drawn to him. I hate how he made me feel when he disappeared, and I hate that he had no idea what he ruined when he cancelledGiselle. I hate that those things are no longer reasonable excuses for me to stay away from him—not when the explanations he gave are too decent for even my stubborn mind to accept.

Although, it’s really myself that I should blame.

I wipe the condensation off the mirror and set to work combing through my long hair.

Like he said, I didn’t bother trying to reach out to him after the Strand. It’s the twenty-first century. It’s not only up to the man to take the lead nowadays.

Also, the thing withGiselle… I’m angrier at myself than I am at him. It was an opportunity that I was desperate for, and one that I got purely by chance. Katia’s injury was the only reason I was considered for the role. A lot of things come up to chance. I can’t control them.

Just like I can’t control this stupid storm or the way my stupid heart beats faster whenever I look into his coffee-brown eyes.

As I fumble around in my small toiletry bag for my skincare, I hear the door open and close. Did he leave the room? Maybe he forgot something in the car.

I hurry up, knowing that Ben probably wants to shower too. I tug on a pair of old running shorts and a t-shirt from the art school in Boston that Amy attended. It’s not the most fashionable set of pajamas, but I’ve never really cared about that. Plus, it’s not like I’m trying to impress Ben. If anything, it’s better if he’s disgusted by how poorly I dress and forgets about me all over again as soon as this ridiculous situation is over.

When I crack open the bathroom door and peer into the room, it’s empty. Barefoot, I pad across the carpet and kneel down beside my suitcase. I busy myself with making sure everything is tucked in there neatly and set aside an outfit for tomorrow. The sooner we can get out of here in the morning, the better. I might have resigned myself to the reality that I’m most definitely missing class, but I still need to get back to the city as soon as humanly possible.

I stand up when the telltale sound of the keycard in the slot reaches my ears. Ben walks in, his arms laden with colorful plastic packets from the vending machine. He smiles at me, his gaze snagging on my bare legs, then drops his loot down on the end of the bed.

“I was hungry and I figured you were too,” he explains. As if in answer, my stomach growls. I pray it’s not loud enough for him to hear. It’s been hours since we were at the diner and my athlete’s metabolism is always five steps ahead of me.

“Oh.”

He runs his fingers through his hair nervously. “Unless, obviously, you want to just go to sleep. Sorry. It’s late. I should have considered that before I assumed you—”

“No, it’s okay,” I tell him, stepping closer to inspect his haul of snacks. “This is great. I am hungry. It’s probably going to be a little while before I’m able to get to sleep. I still feel kind of… antsy.”

“Yeah.”

“…Yeah.”

Ben clears his throat. Why is it suddenly so awkward between us? Didn’t we just have a halfway decent conversation before I went into the bathroom? Is he embarrassed? Is this whole thing a little too familiar, too intimate, for his comfort level?

Are my pajamas really that repulsive?

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” he says.

I nod. Moments later, he disappears into the bathroom. I bite my lip, annoyed at myself when I find my thoughts lingering on the fact that Ben Hawthorne is taking his clothes off mere feet away from me.

Stupid, I grumble to myself.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and sort through the feast that Ben collected from the vending machine. He must have spent about thirty bucks to get all of this—prepackaged pastries, salty chips, chocolate bars, and fruity candies. There’s no real nutritional value in any of this stuff, but I don’t mind. I’ll survive, and so will my carefully honed muscles.

I claim a packet of fruit snacks and a bag of Goldfish for myself and settle back against the pillows. After locating the remote, I flick through the channels idly. I hardly ever have time to sit down and watch television. More often than not, I’ll turn something on while I cook dinner in the evenings and that’s it.

It’s kind of nice to be a little bit lazy; even if fate and the storm conspired to make me so.

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