Page 52 of The Refusal

The bathroom is all glass and gleaming mirrors, and I examine myself as I rub gel over my freckles; I’ve long since given up trying to cover them up, settling for an all-over sheen. The red lace dress I packed so carefully before I left is draped over the side of the tub. With my matching hair, I’m going to turn heads. Am I reckless enough to wear it here? What am I doing exactly? If I slept with Janus, would we be hooking up or something more? I can’t even bring myself to think about that; there’s no evidence he’s ever done anything long-term.

And am I crazy to think no one would know? We’re away from New York—does anyone care here? Would anyone think of taking pictures? Surely the local tech network doesn’t stretch this far. Ugh, my crazy rolling thoughts. I need to stop trying to persuade myself that this is somehow okay. I strip off my yucky plane clothes and step under the pulsing heat of the shower; I want it to dissolve all my worries like sugar on my tongue.

33

Janus

The pounding water echoes the thump of a pulse in my blood: I’m off the goddamn plane. I tip my head back letting the water run over my face and hair, washing away the grime and tension, grasping for the bottle the hotel has provided and lathering soap over myself as I sink into the warmth.

The hack feels like it’s taken over everything recently, but I just want to park all the worries for tonight and focus on Jo. Chances are I’m the kind of guy Jo avoids like the plague, and my half-assed explanations of my history with women will only make her aversion worse. I’m well aware how it looks—like I’m someone who can’t hold down a proper relationship—whereas I feel like I’m just a bit of an introvert who’s easily flattered and likes things to be uncomplicated.

Rinsing off, I step out of the shower, pulling the towel off the rack and rubbing myself down, scrubbing through my hair. I pull on a fitted white shirt, ripped jeans, and a leather bracelet, slipping on the ubiquitous silver ring. Fabian and Adam have them, too: We got them one drunken night in Amsterdam bonding over too many Belgian beers and the wonderful chaos of a European city. Fabian said they were our brotherhood bond, and the reminder is good.

My crazy hair is sticking up all over the place, so I stick some gel in it, messing it up even more. I’m doing too much fiddling around with my clothes tonight, especially after I met Jo dressed in a T-shirt from my bedroom floor on Sunday, but I’ve never felt particularly confident with women. When I thought Jo was attached to someone else I couldn’t mess it up, but now I’m on shifting sands, standing at the top of a cliff tipping off the edge, about to either crash or spread my wings and fly. I take one last glance in the mirror, frown at the reflection, bare my teeth to check nothing horrible is stuck in there, and force myself out and into the corridor.

Moments later I’m squaring my shoulders in front of Jo’s door. The sound of my rap echoes down the hallway, and I peer left along the dimly lit carpeted space, twisting my ring around my finger. Feet shuffle behind the sleek mahogany, the lock clicks, the door swings open and …

Holy.

Shit.

Her face and lips are glowing, almost transparent, dark lashes curling over pink cheeks, auburn strands cascading all over her shoulders. A red lace dress clings to every tiny curve, and when I reach the see-through bits my mind screeches to a halt, my whole body going tight, mouth falling open before I snap it shut. I want to push her back into her room and take her apart on the bed.

“You look unbelievable.”

My voice is a dry croak, but she blinks away, and the telltale pink starts on her neck as she fidgets with the scooped neckline. In a blur of confusion, I immediately reevaluate what I’m doing tonight. Did my overt flirting on the plane make her uncomfortable? Is she wearing this dress for me? I can do low-key, friendly. I don’t need to seduce her right now. We have four days here. I give her what I hope is my best amiable grin.

“What? I’m not allowed to admire how you look?”

She shakes her head. “Getting dressed up and going out for dinner with you is all sorts of weird.”

I laugh. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Her blush deepens, and she peers into her handbag as if she’s checking for something, but it seems like acquiescence.

I duck my head, trying to meet her eyes. “How do I look, friend?”

She stops searching and studies me as a small smile starts to play around her lips. “Sharp.” She’s looking me up and down now, and the sparks start everywhere her eyes land. “Smooth.” I do a slow spin, and she laughs, tapping my arm when I stop.

“Come on, we need to eat before I pass out from lack of food.”

My eyes roll to the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord, for giving me a restaurant companion who actually eats meals.”

Jo giggles, and I gaze down at her smiling face. Her shimmering lips are right there, and, as her mouth opens and her tongue appears, my eyes track all over her face. I want to adjust myself, but I can’t, and the next few minutes are torture as we head along to the elevator.

The cool of the restaurant by reception is a welcome relief: plush booths, velvet banquettes, dim lighting. Each table its own private oasis. The waiter flutters around us, settling us in and handing out drinks menus, saying he will bring us water, before gliding off to the kitchen. I’m trying to tamp things down, but something is building in my body, and I know from bitter past experience that it’s never good if I hold this feeling in. If she turns me down, so be it.

“Can I ask you a question?” It’s out of my mouth before I’ve thought to speak.

“Oh dear, I hate conversations that start like that.” Jo wrinkles her nose at me. “Is it a difficult one to answer?”

I shake my head, pursing my lips and blowing out a breath. I stare at the partition behind her head, take a step closer to the precipice, tentatively stretching my wings.

“Are you interested in me as more than a friend?”

She gawps at me.

“What …?”

---