by Melody Grace
Daniel pulls me back. “What she means is, we appreciate it.”
He steers me away from the counter before I can do anything else embarrassing, like rip off my clothes and offer to trade my body for four wheels and a full gas tank.
“See, that’s half the battle,” he says encouragingly. “Now we just have to sit tight, and wait for the storm to break.”
“Sitting tight is not part of my skill-set,” I grumble, following him outside. “Holy shit!” I gasp as the cold hits me, snow hitting my body in a wet rush. Daniel quickly strips off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders, quelling my protest with a look.
“Come on!” He grabs my case, and quickly leads the way across the street to the airport hotel. It’s nothing fancy, but as we hurtle through the front entrance and leave the freezing snow outside, the muzak in the lobby sounds like a choir of heavenly angels. I stamp my soaking sneakers on the worn beige carpet and let out a sigh of relief. Warm. Dry. I couldn’t be happier if it was the Ritz.
“Wow, this place is packed.” Daniel looks around. The lobby is teeming with people, and not just grouchy-looking travelers from our flight: there are groups of middle-aged men everywhere, wearing khakis and suit jackets, clutching glasses of wine like they’re stuck in the most awkward social mixer ever.
“Weird.” I cut through the crowd towards the front desk. This time, the woman on reception is as perky as her perm: she taps away at her computer for just a moment before checking me in and sliding over a keycard.
“You’re lucky,” she chirps. “You guys got the last room.”
What?
I look at Daniel, who’s staring back at me in horror. “But we’re not … He’s not … I mean, he needs a room too!” I squark. “A different room!”
The woman’s face falls. “I thought … I’m so sorry, that was the last one. We’re packed this weekend. Orthodontic convention.”
“You’re kidding me,” I blink.
The woman shakes her head. “We never joke about oral hygiene.”
I slowly turn back to Daniel. “So what do we do?” I ask, trying not to blush. It shouldn’t be a big deal to split a room with him, given how much time we’ve spent together over the past couple of years, but for some reason, there’s a huge difference. Then, we were in college, safely connected to other people. Now he’s a single man, and I know just how good it feels in his arms.
Daniel clears his throat. There’s an uncomfortable pause. “I guess it’s fine with me. I mean, if it’s the last room. It’s not like we’d be sharing a bed,” he adds quickly, as if the thought couldn’t be more horrifying.
Rejection slaps me round the face all over again. “Of course, right, sure,” I agree quickly. “As long as you don’t snore!”
We ride up the elevator in silence, avoiding eye contact. The Muzak fills the space between us, a weird pan-pipe version of a Top 40 pop hit. “I always wonder about the people who make this music,” I babble, desperate to break the awkwardness. “I mean, do they like it? Are they going home in the evening, like, ‘hey, honey, I had the best day recording a watered-down version of Katy Perry!’”
Daniel cracks a smile. “I think it would be more a guilty secret. They feel shameful every time they cash a check.”
“At least they’re cashing checks,” I sigh, thinking of my own negative bank account. Daniel gives me a curious look, but thankfully, the elevator stops at our floor, cutting the conversation short.
Our room is just down the hall. I fumble with the keycard, and then fling open the door. “Home, sweet home!”
I step inside to find more beige carpet, a tiny TV, and a bed.
One bed.
One.
We both stop, just inside the doorway. “Oh.” I say, feeling a treacherous flicker of happiness.
“I can take the couch,” Daniel says quickly, hauling our bags over to the side of the room.
“That’s not a couch, it’s a glorified armchair,” I protest, looking around. “You know, maybe it’s just two twins pushed together.” I go over to the bed and pat down the middle. Nope.
“Then I’ll sleep on the floor.” Daniel coughs. He’s red in the face, and I realize with horror that he’d rather crash on the hard carpeting than share a bed with me. Does he think I’m going to jump him in the middle of the night or something?
“You know what, we can figure it out later,” I try to block out the stab of rejection that spirals through me. “It’s still early.”
“Right,” Daniel agrees quickly. “You should get out of those clothes.”
My eyes widen.
“To dry off!” Daniel exclaims, his voice twisted. “Because you’re wet. From the snow.”
“So are you.”
There’s a pause as we stare at each other, eyes locked. My heart stops, and suddenly, the world seems to shrink, contracting around us until there’s nothing but me and him, together in the small room. Daniel’s dark hair is plastered to his head, dripping water down his jaw; his sweater clings to that muscular torso, and for a crazy moment, I think about launching myself across the bed at him and ripping those damp clothes right off his body. His jaw clenches with tension, and I can almost imagine that look in his eyes is desire. Then he looks away, clearing his throat.
“You can use the bathroom first, if you want.”
“Thanks!” I yelp. I grab my bags, and flee for the bathroom, locking the door behind me and sinking down on the edge of the tub with a sigh.
Get a grip, Lacey!
The poor guy isn’t interested, that much is crystal clear, but here I am, fantasizing about getting him naked and exploring his body with my tongue …
I snap out of it, reaching for my case. But as I unzip the travel bag, I realize with a sinking heart that I checked the case with my real clothes. This is the bag full of wedding stuff: my high-heeled sandals, makeup, my bridesmaids gown …
I hold it up, carefully shaking out the silk. It’s not so much a gown as a cocktail dress: slinky red silk, with tiny spaghetti straps and a low, plunging back. Juliet said I could pick anything I liked, and I figured the red would be festive: just throw on a cute faux-fur jacket, and call me Mrs. Santa Claus!
But now, here, with Daniel …?
It’s either this or pneumonia, so I quickly duck under the hot jets of the shower and dry off, slipping the dress over my head. It settles around my curves in a swoosh of silky fabric, and even though I wish I had jeans and a sweatshirt instead, I have to admit, it looks great.
What the hell.
I twist my hair up in a simple knot, then slick on some mascara and lipstick to finish the look. There’s no way I can wear a bra under the dress, so I just shimmy on some black lace underwear and strap on a cute pair of my high-heeled sandals. There.
I take a final look in the mirror. I’m crazy over-dressed — hell, I look like I’m ready for a black-tie event, not the crappy bar of the TravelLodge — but at least I look good.
If I’m going to pretend like I could care less about Daniel, then I need to be looking good.
I take a breath, and open the bathroom door.
“Hey, do you have a charger?” Daniel is searching through his bag. He’s changed into sweatpants and a college T-shirt, the faded old one I always loved him in: clinging to his torso, soft enough to touch. “I think I left mine in—”
He looks up and stops mid-sentence.
“What?” I flush, aware of his gaze. I look down at the outfit, suddenly second-guessing it all over again. “Yes, I know, it’s OTT, but it’s all I had.”
Daniel clears his throat. “It’s fine,” he says dismissively, looking away. “So do you have that charger?”
I blink.
“My battery is nearly dead,” Daniel continues, moving to check the outside pockets on his laptop bag. “If it goes dead, I’m screwed.”
“Sure,” I say quietly, a sting in my throat. I don’t know what I expected from him, but now I feel like a stupid little girl, all dolled up like t
his. I go quickly back to my bags, and dig out the phone charger. “Here,” I hold it out to him, avoiding his gaze. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Daniel plugs in, and scrolls through his phone, ignoring me. I wait, painfully self-conscious as the seconds tick by.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t say another word. It’s like I don’t even exist.
Rejection wells up, and I bite my lip to keep it back. “I need a drink,” I announce, honest. “I’m going to the bar. You coming?”
Daniel makes a vague gesture, still keeping his eyes fixed on his phone. “I’ve got some emails to catch up on.”
“On Christmas Eve?” I ask.
“No rest,” Daniel gives me a brief, tense smile. “You go ahead.”
My heart falls. “See you later.”
I grab my purse and bolt from the room, not stopping until the elevator doors close behind me and I can finally let my fake smile drop.
What did you expect? I scold myself, miserable. The dress that moments ago had seemed so gorgeous now looks cheap and slutty in the mirrors. He doesn’t notice you. He never has. After all that time secretly wanting him, it should be clear as day: I’ll never be the girl for him, that sweet good girl he seems to want so much. I’m the last thing on his mind.
Damn, I need that drink.
Daniel
The door closes behind Lacey. I let out a strangled groan, the breath I’ve been holding in ever since she stepped out of the bathroom and short-circuited every nerve in my system.
What the hell?
I sink down on the bed, still trying to recover from the sight of her in that dress: red silk whispering across her body, so goddamn sexy I thought I was going to come right there on the spot. That woman is a miracle, a walking, talking fantasy come to life, and I’m supposed to spend the night in the same room as her without losing my mind?
You are so screwed.
I fall back, staring at the ceiling. Goddamn. It was bad enough when we made it up here to the room, and she was standing there: her T-shirt clinging, wet to her body; her hair falling in damp tendrils over her eyes. I swear it took everything I had not to pull her down on the bed and show her everything she’s been missing out on, dating all those bad boy assholes who don’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman. Worshipping her body, inch by precious inch, until she’s molten under my hands, writhing, begging for release. No, Lacey doesn’t know what I could do to her — with her — the kind of pleasure that comes slow and hot and steady in the night, relentless, until she thinks she can’t take it anymore.
And then she had to walk out in that dress, like a neon ‘fuck you’ to my self-control.
I feel myself stiffen, hard at just the thought of her. Jesus, what a mess. We’re technically spending the night together, but here I am, crazy with wanting her, while she’s downstairs, alone in the bar.
Alone? You’re kidding yourself. Looking like that, she’s probably getting hit on by every cocky asshole in the state …
I bolt to my feet, my whole body tensing at the thought of her with somebody else. No way, not on my watch. Before I can even think straight, I’m out the door and down the hallway. The elevator is taking its sweet time arriving, so I take the stairs instead, two at a time in my hurry to get down to the bar and …
What? Just what are you going to do? Throw her over your shoulder and take her back up to the room? Spend the night working through all those dirty fantasies you’ve been dreaming up, ever since moment you laid eyes on her again?
No. No way.
I stop short in the lobby, forcing myself to think it over: to be calm, and have a plan like always. This crazy lust I’m feeling is just that: crazy. There’s no way I’m hooking up with Lacey, it makes no sense at all. I’m just going to look out for her, that’s all. Like, a big brother would. That’s right. She’s stressed about the wedding, all in a fluster; I’m just making sure she doesn’t get in any trouble, dressed up like temptation and looking twice as fun.
I’ve got myself back under control by the time I stroll into the bar, but my whole body still tenses when I see her over in the corner, leaning flirtatiously against the bar and chatting to some slick douchebag in a designer suit. His eyes are stripping her naked, and even though I’m not a violent guy, I suddenly get a vision of slamming his face into the bar until he’s bleeding.
Whatever happened to cool, calm, and in control?
I clench my jaw in frustration. “There you are,” I stride over and take my place at the bar beside her. “You left so fast, I wasn’t sure you remembered our keycard.”
“Nope.” Lacey gives me a confused look, then turns back to the guy, quickly explaining. “This is my friend Daniel. The place was sold out, so we had to split a room.”
I’m distracted by the back of her outfit, the dress falling in a swoop over the bare of her back. I imagine how soft it would be to touch, what she’d feel like under my hands …
“Whiskey, straight.” I order, needing to snap the hell out of this. When I drag my focus back again, the Douchebag is telling the story of how he was heading back home from a corporate party in LA when he got snowed in too.
“He was on our flight too, I didn’t even notice.” Lacey smiles.
“But I certainly noticed you,” Douchebag gives her a slimy grin, and Lacey giggles.
“You didn’t.”
“Everybody on the plane noticed you, darlin’.” He grins. “I just figured you and he were, you know.” He looks from her to me and back again.
“What, Daniel? No way!” Lacey snorts with laughter. “We go way back. He’s like a brother to me.” She pats my shoulder, and although I was trying to tell myself the same thing not ten seconds ago, it still burns to hear her say it.
“Good to know,” the Douchebag gives her a long look, not even trying to hide his stare. His eyes linger on her breasts, wrapped up like a Christmas gift in that red silk, and I have to clench my hands into fists at my side to stop from leaning over and throttling the smug expression off his face.
“Did you call Juliet yet?” I change the subject, focussing back on Lacey. Her face drops, and I feel bad for ruining her good mood, but I need to get her away from this asshole before I do some serious damage. “You should call now, let her know what happened. She’ll worry,” I add.
Lacey sighs. “Fine,” she slides down off her stool in a ripple of fabric. “I’ll be right back,” she coos at the Douchebag, sliding her hand along his shoulder as she passes.
We both watch her go, the swing of her hips as she sashays out to the lobby, reaching into her purse for her phone. Douchebag is practically drooling, and I feel a flash of guilt: I’m just as bad, lusting after her like this.
Except you won’t be doing anything about it, I remind myself.
The moment she’s gone, I take a step closer and drop my voice. “You need to leave. Now.”
Douchebag stares back, confused. “What?”
“Put the drink down, pick your ass up, and get the fuck out of here. This minute.” My voice is low, but there’s no mistaking that I’m not fucking around.
“Is this about the girl?” Douchebag snorts, looking me up and down. “Sorry, dude, you’re too late. Don’t blame you for trying though,” he adds, smug. “The crazy ones are the best, right? They let you do all kinds of fucked-up shit.”
I see red.
He lifts his hand to gesture to the bartender, but I move in, grabbing his wrist and pulling it down between us, twisting and applying the pressure just so.
Douchebag lets out a strangled yelp of pain. “What the fuck, man?”
“You ever learn jujitsu?” I ask, my tone conversational as I keep bending back his fingers, dangerously close to breaking point. “No, of course not. It’s not flashy like kung fu, or kickboxing. You don’t get to throw punches, feel like a big shot.”
Douchebag whimpers. He’s slowly crumpling lower, trying to keep me from tearing his joints right out of their sockets.
“Me, I
like it,” I continue quietly. The bartender’s just down the bar from us, and there are people all around, but to anyone watching, we’re just having a pleasant conversation. “It’s all about precision, see. The tiniest amount of pressure can make all the difference. Like so,” I shift my grip the smallest amount, and Douchebag yelps again. “Another inch, and I’ll break all your fingers,” I tell him calmly. “Now, do you want to think again about leaving Lacey the fuck alone?”
“Fine, yes! Anything!” Douchebag whimpers. I give him another twist, then let go.
He falls back, cradling his hand. “Jesus, you’re crazy, you know that?!”
I shrug. “What did you say? The crazy ones are the best.” I take a sip of my drink, watching with satisfaction as he turns and bolts from the room — almost knocking Lacey down on her way back in.
She rejoins me, looking over her shoulder suspiciously. “What happened to him?”
“No idea.” I give her an innocent look. “Everything alright with Juliet?”
“No,” Lacey collapses on her stool again with a slump. “She says it’ll all be fine, but I know her. She’s just trying to make me feel better.”
“You’ve done everything you can,” I point out, sympathetic. “This is just a freak delay.”
Lacey shakes her head, her blonde hair shimmering under the lights. “I’m a terrible friend,” she says mournfully. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
“Come on, you’re a great friend. You’d do anything for her — including flying cross-country through a blizzard.” I gesture for the bartender again, this time pointing to Lacey’s near-empty glass of wine.
She stops me. “Do you have any tequila in this place?” she asks the bartender.
He gazes at her adoringly. “Sure.”
“Pour me a shot. Make that two.” She gives me a sideways look. “Or four.”
“You sure about that?” I raise an eyebrow.
Lacey shrugs. “You got a better idea?”
I have plenty. Hell, juggling fire or going sky-diving without a parachute would be a better idea than this. It’s dangerous, reckless. I’m practically asking for trouble. It’s so far out of character I don’t know where to start.
