Page 55 of The Man I Love

The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and Samantha rushed through the doors as soon as they opened.

She shuffled down the hall, wishing she could gain more speed, but her large stomach weighed her down. She fumbled for the key in her purse hoping she could get into her room without confrontation.

“Do you need help?” Tristan was right behind her.

“No.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” She was flustered, and she needed to get away as quickly as possible. She wrapped her fingers around the keycard and yanked it out of her purse. “There it is!” She sighed.

He was leaning against the wall, watching her as she scanned the card, then slinked into the room without saying another word.

She closed the door and locked it behind her, then pressed her back firmly onto the surface as if to hold it shut. The air conditioning was cool and welcoming. So easily he could make her pulse race, make her memory wander to a milliondifferent memories of their past relationship. Her eyes focused on the hotel room, and the king-sized bed that welcomed her like a cloud. The last time she’d been in a hotel had been with Tristan and the memory made her cheeks flush. They hadn’t done much sleeping. Hardly any sleeping at all. Pushing the thought aside she walked toward the green accent chair in the corner where she located the air conditioner controls on the wall and repeatedly pressed the down arrow, only content when a snowflake appeared on the screen.

A knock sounded on the door, and she spun around. “For fuck’s sake. Can’t a girl catch a break?

“What?” she asked, when she marched toward the door and swung it wide open.

Tristan was still leaning in the entryway, though this time a Tiffany blue colored toiletry bag swung from his finger. “I thought you might need this,” he said.

She cleared her throat, realizing she must have left it in her hurry to get away from him. “Thank you.” She snatched the bag from his finger.

He didn’t move.

“Did you need something?”

“No.”

“Then why …” But she really didn’t need him to answer her. She glanced down to her feet, pulled in a lung full of air, then met his eyes again. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m tired and?—”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. Today has been stressful for both of us.”

She nodded her head and averted her gaze to the textured wallpaper in the hall. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered how difficult this trip would be for him too. She’d been so focused on herself. On leaving New York and wrapping up all she needed to do with The Gallery.

He raked his hand through his hair, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“Tris––”

“Goodnight, Samantha.” He rolled his shoulder away from the wall and walked into his room, then closed it gently behind him as though he hadn’t realized she’d been speaking.

Her jaw went slack, and it took a long time for her to pry herself away from the door and return to her room. He’d done the same thing she’d done to him less than two minutes earlier, yet she still wanted to knock his door down and tell him how rude it was. Frankly, the only thing that stopped her was the fact that she had so little trust in herself when it came to Tristan Montgomery. She either fell into his bed or got into an argument. There was no middle ground.

With their drive ahead, and a baby in their very near future, she couldn’t risk another fight. Instead, she walked into her bathroom, stripped off all her clothes, and climbed inside the shower while the water was still cold. The icy temperature was exactly what she needed to rid her body of excess heat and to calm her raging hormones. The day, which at some points felt as though it would never end, washed down the drain with soap that smelled like roses— but then the nagging words of her best friend were back, playing in her head and firing her right back up again.How can you move on if you haven’t even talked about what happened?Samantha wasn’t sure it was true. There were many cases when the best thing to do was forget. What was the purpose of bringing things up repeatedly? Did they reallyneedto talk about what happened at The Gallery opening? Or would talking it out only make things raw again?

She didn’t have the answer, and eventually turned up the heat a little, letting the warmth of the water soothe her aching back.

By the time she was finished with her shower, she felt ten times better, but then she stepped out onto the tile and her stomach began to gurgle. “Damn him,” she whispered. Remembering the protein bar in her purse, she snatched the robe from the back of the door and went to retrieve it––a knock sounded at her door again.

“What does he want now?” she whispered, forcing her arms through the sleeves. She pulled the knot tight above her belly, yanked open the door, and quickly recoiled. It wasn’t Tristan.

“Oh, hi!” she said, pulling the edges of her robe a little closer.

“Room service,” a man said chirpily. He looked no more than twenty years old and proceeded to come into the room without an invitation.

She jumped out of his way. “I think you have the wrong room,” she said, following two steps behind him. She watched as he unloaded plates, dishes, and condiments onto the bedside table.

"He mentioned you might say that,” he murmured.

---