Page 78 of Icing Hearts

And I swipe the card.

Chapter 47

Clara

We float into the room, and he comes to me, cups my face, and plants a gentle kiss against my lips. I savor his taste. He’s better than I dreamed he’d be.

If our lips meet again, I know it will be all over. That there will be no going back. That he’ll find out. I can still salvage this.

So I pull back.

“You’re too good at this.”

“Clara, I do not need you to tell me where you want to be kissed—where you need to be touched. I have been mapping your body for years, watching where the goosebumps form, the places you touch absentmindedly. You are my favorite subject of study—and I am a scholar in the field.”

“Uh, I’m kinda cold.”

“I can fix that.”

He tries to lift my shirt, but I stop him.

“Can we turn the lights off or something?”

“I’ve waited years. I want to see you, Clara.”

“Tory. I’m nervous.”

“Why? It’s me.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

“There’s nothing that could make this moment any less than perfect.”

“What if I want to stop?”

“Then we stop. You’re in control.”

“I’m…gonna go to the bathroom.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

The door clicks softly behind me, and I flick on the water to drown out the sound of my pacing.

I can’t take off my clothes. I would do almost anything with him, as long I stayed covered. Cool water splashes against my face from splayed hands. The hotel towel is dry and fluffy and luxurious. When I crack the door, Tory is seated on the edge of the bed. He’s changed into dry clothes. Black Lululemon shorts. Socks. No shirt, despite the frigid air conditioning. The lights are low but not low enough. I shiver.

“Let’s get you into something dry.”

“I’ll go to my room.”

“It’s fine, I have stuff.”

He rummages in a large gray suitcase. The kind with four wheels and a hard outer case that claims to be indestructible. Expensive. He holds out a t-shirt and pair of shorts.

I can’t wear these. My hands remain at my sides. I’m frozen. Goosebumps erupt on the tiny bits of exposed skin. “I can’t wear that.” My eyes focus on a scuffed part of the wall. It’s such a nice hotel. Aesthetically pleasing in all the right ways. It presents well. But there are still scuffs. Still scars. There always are. Nothing is perfect and even less is what it seems.

Tory angles his head and narrows his eyes. They’re calculating. Working something out. The panic is back. I pinch my lip with my thumb and forefinger.

“Let’s finish our game.”

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