Peter walked to the kitchen, where there was apparently a full-sized refrigerator and freezer I had neglected to notice. To be fair, I’d only had a couple minutes to get dressed before tennis and scarf down something to eat to really see this room.
I heard the sound of ice cubes clinking into a metal canister for a few seconds, then the sounds of Peter rummaging through a cabinet. He came back with some clear plastic wrap and a bucket of ice.
“You know you’re in a fancy hotel room when it comes with plastic wrap included,” I said.
“You should see my room. I even have aluminum foil.”
I grinned. “Spoiled pig.”
Peter wrapped my ankle in a few layers of plastic before he added ice cubes, which protected my skin from the worst of the cold. I couldn’t help thinking about how different Peter was than Dawson, which was also not a productive line of thought, considering Peter wasn’t my boyfriend. The difference between him and Dawson should have been irrelevant.
Still… It was amazing how much his obvious concern for my health seemed to overwrite the way he’d treated me. Dawson had always said all the right things, but when it came time to act, he put himself first. He acted annoyed when I was sick. He acted like my pregnancy was a test of endurance he had to suffer through. He thought my grandfather’s funeral was a massive inconvenience for falling during a busy week of work.
I’d been tricked into thinking I loved Dawson by his words, and eventually, his actions taught me I was wrong. With Peter, it felt like I’d been tricked into hating him, but his actions were trying to teach me I was just as wrong.
“You mentioned a guy named Dawson back there,” he said in a way I thought was supposed to sound casual. His tone gave away the fact that he’d been thinking of little else since then.
“I did,” I said.
"Ex-boyfriend?" he asked.
“Something like that, yeah. He… decided responsibility was weighing him down and he’d rather be single again.”
“Responsibility?” Peter asked. “What, like the responsibility not to sleep with other people?”
More like the responsibility of raising a child. “Yeah. I guess it was too much for him.”
Peter scoffed. “It’s unreal, isn’t it? You can think you know somebody, and then they flip a switch and suddenly you don’t.”
“Yeah,” I said, unable to stop my eyes from falling to his full lips.
“That was unexpected,” he said abruptly. I realized my foot was already wrapped and he’d set it on the footstool while I zoned out. “You telling Kristen you were my girlfriend, I mean. I thought we were just going to imply it.”
“Yeah. That wasn’t my brightest moment.”
To my surprise, Peter was smiling a little. “It was worth it to see the look on her face. But I am interested to hear what your plan is on convincing her you’re my girlfriend for the rest of the convention.”
My throat suddenly felt very tight. “I was assuming we’d just kind of let that one die out, actually.”
Peter watched me for a long time before he stood up with a faint smile. "Too bad." He took a step toward the door, then paused. "Make sure you take the ice off after another ten minutes. Then sit with the foot up on a pillow for a little. It'll help the swelling settle down."
He left without another word.
I sank back into the couch and stared at the wall. What did he mean, “too bad”?
I called my mom and spoke with Zoey before she’d be leaving for Lilith’s and before Peter was due to pick me up from my room. According to her, they’d eaten more ice cream than I would’ve liked—strawberry, of course—and watched a movie I didn’t approve of. I couldn’t even be mad. My mom was doing me a huge favor, as usual, and I wasn’t about to pick fights on how she managed to get through all the extra time she’d had to spend watching Zoey for me.
Lilith arrived before I was off the phone with my mom and asked if she could talk to me.
“What’s up, dork?” she asked cheerily.
“Just waiting for Peter to take me down to the lobby for breakfast in a few minutes.”
There was a slight pause. “Are you two friends now?”
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wiped the stupid smile from my face, even if Lilith couldn’t see it. “He has actually been acting a little nicer. I think we bonded over a near-death experience, or something.”
“Near death experience?”
“Did you know William Chamberson knows how to fly a helicopter?”
“Like, legally?” Lilith asked. “Because all I know is he was really into some virtual reality game the last few weeks. It was some kind of flight simulator. I never heard about him getting an actual pilot’s license.”
I gripped the phone a little tighter. “But wouldn’t they shoot him out of the sky if he tried to fly without a license? Wouldn’t Hailey stop him, for that matter?”
“Uh, well, Hailey was traveling for some TV thing. I don’t think she’s currently supervising him. It sounds like you survived though, so woohoo, right?”
"Yeah. Woohoo. I think I'm going to avoid thinking about that one for a while. Anyway, Peter is still weird and kind of stiff, but yeah, he hasn't been as bad. I also met his ex. She's a complete bitch."
“Fake boobs?” Lilith asked.
“Yes!” I said. “How did you know?”
"Because it's like an unwritten rule. Ex-girlfriends of rich guys always seem to want to teach them a lesson by going berserk at the plastic surgeon after the breakup. Problem is, they end up making Frankenstein's out of themselves instead of making the guy regret the breakup."
“Frankenstein was actually the doctor, you know. Not the monster.”
Lilith groaned. “So? You knew what I meant, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. No need to clarify. I know you’re a total book dork and I’ve accepted that about you. But you don’t need to rub it in my face.”
I grinned.
“And stop smiling. I can hear your teeth.”
“What?” I asked, laughing.
“It sounds different when someone breathes through their teeth. Listen.” Lilith proceeded to heavily breathe into the phone for a few seconds, and I had no idea what difference I was supposed to be hearing.
I heard my mom in the background ask Lilith what she was doing. “Look, I’ve got to go. Your mom is asking too many questions. I’m going to take your kid and run for it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Lilith hung up without saying goodbye, which I always found a little unnerving. She’d apparently learned phone etiquette from TV and movies, where the only appropriate ways to end phone calls were to click a flip phone shut, or, as more edgy movies in the early 2010s popularized, you could always just snap them in half to assert your dominance. I doubted Lilith was snapping any phones in half, but I thought if she still used flip phones, she might.
I wasn’t sure exactly what to wear to the convention, but I decided to wear a semi-formal dress with a nicer jacket and heels. It wasn’t the warmest outfit, but I knew we’d be spending the majority of our day inside the convention center, and everything warm I’d packed was too casual.
Peter knocked on my door at exactly half an hour past seven, just like he said he would. He looked pristine, as usual. He was wearing a white undershirt, a gray jacket and pants, and a red tie. I’d mostly seen him clean-shaven, but he was wearing the stubble he’d accumulated since yesterday, and I found myself deeply enjoying how it looked on him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Why, do I not look ready?” I looked down at myself in a sudden panic.
Peter smirked. “It’s just the customary thing to ask someone at a time like this.”
“A time like this,” I said. “Like when you are stopping by your employee’s room to take her to a convention that she still doesn’t completely understand the purpose of being brought to? Especially when you consider that you haven’t breathed a
word about the marketing that was supposedly the whole reason for bringing said employee?”
Peter seemed to consider his words carefully, and ultimately decided on a very Peteresque response. “Yes.”
I sighed and followed after him. I’d spent longer than I cared to admit thinking about whether he’d still want me to use him as my human crutch today, and he answered my question by immediately putting his arm around my side and taking some of my weight.
Somewhere between claiming I was his girlfriend last night and his little impromptu triage of my swollen ankle in my room, I’d become very confused on how I felt about Peter Barnidge. I guessed if I was being honest with myself, I’d been confused since we first met. It was just that recent evidence was mounting to such an extent that even I couldn’t bottle it up and deny it for much longer. I liked him. I liked that he was grouchy and bitter on the outside, but sweet and caring on the inside. I liked that his smiles didn’t come easy, so when I finally squeezed one out of him it felt like a prize. Peter Barnidge was a gorgeous mystery, and no matter how I looked at it, I’d enjoyed my time with him this weekend.
“I kind of thought a hotel like this would do breakfast room service or something,” I said as we rode the elevator down to the lobby.
“They do. But I prefer to eat a table.”
I wiggled my eyebrows. “Or maybe you just preferred my company.”
“You’re really like this every day of the week, all hours of the day, aren’t you?”
“Like what?”
The elevator dinged, and we headed through the lobby toward a dining area that was hidden behind two elaborately carved doors.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Feisty?”
I laughed. “I think I spent so long struggling to make ends meet that being a little confrontational and obnoxious became the default setting for my personality.”
“Please don’t take this as a compliment, but I don’t find you confrontational or obnoxious. You’re persistent and you aren’t afraid to laugh at yourself. There’s a difference.”
I stopped walking to look up at him and make sure I heard him right. “Well screw you, because I’m definitely taking that as a compliment. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.”
“It sounds like you need to invest in better friends.”
“If you’re offering yourself up, I’m not sure that would be much of an upgrade.”
“No.” The smile Peter wore faded as he looked down at me. “I’m not interested in being your friend.” The statement should have carried a bite of cruelty, but he was sending me an entirely different meaning with his eyes. I wasn’t sure if he realized it, either. I’m not interested in being your friend, because I want more than that.
Before I could think of a proper response, I saw Kristen coming toward us with a bowl of oatmeal and some fruit on her plate. Apparently she was staying at the same hotel as us. Big surprise. She was already grinning in that decidedly “Mean Girls” way of hers. Peter caught my eyes and groaned when he saw what I was looking at.
“If it isn’t my favorite couple,” Kristen said. “I’d say you should hurry up and eat your breakfast if you don’t want to disappoint your fans, but there probably aren’t many of those, are there?”
I’d felt like I recognized Kristen when I saw her at the tennis courts, but between the split pants, throbbing ankle, and bruised ego, I had been too distracted to place where. Now I knew why she looked so familiar. She was Kristen Woods, the author of that What’s Buried There book that everyone was reading a couple years ago. I’d actually read it myself and devoured it, though now that I’d met the author, I wished I had hated it. I almost had to believe she’d hired a ghostwriter or something, because I just couldn’t make my image of this nasty, petty woman mesh with a book like that.
“No,” Peter said. To his credit, there was no emotion in his voice, which I thought was the wisest approach with Kristen. She seemed so hungry to stir up anger and bitterness. Giving her nothing was likely the fastest way to get her out of our hair. “But I’m sure you need to hurry. Maybe if you get to the convention soon enough, you can work on that sequel to What’s Buried There your fans are so eagerly awaiting.”
Had I imagined it, or had he put a twist on the word “fans” that implied the same thing I felt—that Kristen didn’t seem capable of writing a book like that.
“Hm.” Kristen tapped her chin with a well-manicured finger and shrugged. “Maybe. But the movie deal is padding my bank account pretty nicely. I don’t know if I’ll ever need to write another. This one treated me so well.”
“I’m surprised there’s any money left after all that plastic surgery.” I paused. I felt like looking around in confusion. I’d heard the words come out, and they’d definitely sounded like they came from my throat, but I neither remembered deciding to say them or saying them. I put my hand to my mouth and felt my eyes widen a little.
Peter put his hand to his mouth too, but it was to cover the amused grin he wore.
I thought if Kristen had a loaded weapon at that moment, those would’ve definitely been my last words, and I wasn’t sure I had a problem with that.
Just when I thought she was about to dump her oatmeal on me, she made a dismissive sound. “It’s too bad you don’t have the money to get some work done, too. Maybe they could fix those clown feet or those huge, ridiculous elephant ears.”
I felt like sticking my tongue out at her, but stopped myself. I was definitely lowering myself to her level as it was, but even I had my limits.
Peter put his hand on my back and gave me a quick, surprisingly affectionate rub. “I like your ears,” he said simply.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I know they’re big. And I also egged her on, so I probably deserved that.”
“No. I’m serious. I think they’re cute. Especially when you wear your hair like this—” he ducked his head slightly to run his forefinger along my temple, dragging some of my hair to tuck it behind my ear. He nodded his approval, then he seemed to reflect on what he’d just done and said, which made him look a little pale.
I grinned. “What? Did you forget you were supposed to hate me?” My tone was teasing, but my heart was pounding through my chest. I’d seen hints and whispers of the real Peter, but he’d just given me a complete and unhindered view of what was really going on behind the mask of irritation he liked to wear.
“I don’t hate you, and I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that before.”
“Right. Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’ve figured you out—mostly, at least.”
Peter started walking toward the buffet that was loaded with gourmet breakfast food. It was so fancy that hotel staff in crisp, white uniforms operated every section to personally serve guests their food. "Do tell," he said.
“Well,” I motioned to the worker to load me up with scrambled eggs. “You act cranky and rude to scare people off, but that’s not really you. And for some reason, you kind of hate that you have to be like that, but you can’t help it. You also can’t keep the act up for forever, but most people aren’t masochistic enough to stick around long enough to wear you down.”
“I see,” he said slowly. He was absentmindedly having the staff load up his plate like he was about to go into hibernation in a few hours.
I waited for him to say more—at the least to outright deny everything I’d said, but he only kept having food piled on his plate.
“Well?” I asked once we sat down at a table by the window with our food. It was still snowing outside, but it was warm and cozy where we sat. “Am I hot or cold?”
He grinned.
“What?”
Peter shook his head and sighed. “You’re persistent. But I’m going to choose not to answer any of your questions. Except that I think we both know this would be a lot easier if you weren’t hot.”
I stared at my plate and blushed. Well, then. Somehow, Peter had managed to make me feel eve
n more confused. The only thing I knew for certain was that the ideal point to tell him the truth about Zoey had long-since passed, and I was only delaying the inevitable explosion the longer I waited.
Just one more day. It was Sunday. We’d get through the convention today. Then once we were back at work tomorrow, I’d tell him. Simple as that.
At least I hoped.
14
Peter
I was scheduled to be available for book signing just after lunch. Until then, I was technically free to roam the convention. I didn’t bother telling Violet that I usually found a quiet place and hid from the crowds during that time. I definitely didn’t tell her that I usually scheduled several members of my staff to essentially escort me around the premises so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone outside my scheduled hours.
Yet here we were, and I’d only let my assistant make the trip—separately. I had paid for her plane tickets and made sure she arrived this morning, along with all the materials I’d need for my signing table. It was almost laughable if I thought about how obvious my true intentions were, whether I wanted to admit them to myself or not.
I’d been letting my dick run the show since the moment Violet walked into my life. I wondered if she’d call me out when she found out my assistant had the privilege of traveling peacefully by herself, while Violet had been dragged along with me for no apparent reason. Of course, there was a reason. I was infatuated with her. I tried to fight it. I tried to deny it. I even tried to sabotage it. But it was staring me in the face. It was undeniable.
“Oh my God,” Violet said.
Letting her lean into me had become so second nature that I’d almost forgotten she was holding onto me until she squeezed her arm so tight around my side that I could barely breathe. I looked around, expecting some kind of horrific injury or an active shooter. She let go of me and half-limped over to a puppy wearing a “#1 Book Fan” vest.
In her defense, the small, black lab was very small, with tiny legs, a frantically wagging tail, and a big head with big eyes. Violet fell to her knees—with an alarming lack of concern for her ankle—and asked the owner if she could pet the dog. The question seemed like an unnecessary formality, considering the dog was already climbing on Violet’s lap and licking her chin.
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