I barely have time to drop off my pack in my room before I’m called back out for my daily wrap-up interviews. As a producer leads me through the hotel lobby, I try to think of comforting things I can say to Miranda about the Samir situation. Should I remind her that at least she’ll be working with someone she already knows, so she’ll be able to compensate for his weaknesses? That she won’t have to suffer through any awkward getting-to-know-you small talk? That maybe she actually will come away from this with some closure about her relationship? None of that sounds remotely convincing. The truth is that being with Samir is going to suck, and there’s really nothing I can do about it except sympathize.

But when I reach the producer’s makeshift studio in the hotel’s outdoor restaurant, Miranda’s not even there; Troy’s waiting for me in the other chair. The redheaded producer from the banquet hall is interviewing us, and she introduces herself as Tessa. “Where’s my sister?” I ask her.

“Happy to see you, too,” Troy says, and I roll my eyes at him.

“We’d like to talk to you with Troy first,” Tessa says breezily. “Sit down and let’s chat about your day, okay?”

Troy and I spend half an hour recapping how we felt about the various challenges. I spend the whole time wondering if Miranda’s all right—not to mention what’s going to happen when I get to Will’s room—and I’m totally distracted and incoherent. When Troy finally leaves and my sister comes out to take his place, I jump up to hug her. “I’m so sorry, Miranda,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says automatically. But she doesn’t return my hug, just pats me quickly with one hand before she pulls away. A small knot of uneasiness forms deep in my stomach—Miranda is a pretty huggy kind of person. She won’t look directly at me as she sits down, but I can tell she’s been crying.

“I wish I could do something to help,” I say.

When she finally meets my eyes, I’m shocked by how desperate she looks. “I wish you’d wanted that a couple hours ago,” she says.

What does that mean? What could I have done hours ago to prevent this? But before I can ask, Tessa says, “Let’s chat about what happened back in the ballroom today. Can you describe the situation for me, Claire?”

I don’t really want to rehash my meltdown—it’ll only help the producers personify me as incompetent. But maybe I can spin it so the focus is on our sisterly love, not my humiliation. “Miranda was amazing,” I say. “I have a pretty serious phobia of dancing in public—I always feel so stupid and self-conscious, even if nobody’s looking at me. And this time it was much worse, because everyone was looking at me, and I totally froze. But then Miranda got up onstage with me, and it was like the fear just melted away. When I concentrated on her, I was able to do the challenge. I actually kind of had fun. She’s my knight in shining armor.” I expect my sister to smile at least a little, but she doesn’t.

“What made you get up there and help Claire, Miranda?” asks Tessa.

I assume Miranda will repeat what she said on the plaza an hour ago—that we’re a team no matter what, that she’ll always be there for me, that we’ll make up our lost time tomorrow. But instead she says, “I mean, it’s not like this has never happened before—I’ve pretty much spent my whole life jumping in to help Claire when things get too overwhelming for her. And usually it’s fine, and I don’t mind doing it. But I guess everything’s different when you’re on a TV show, and I probably should have realized that helping her today could have serious consequences.”

I blink at her. “What are you talking about? What consequences?”

“ ‘What consequences’? Do you seriously not see this disaster of a situation I’m in?”

I don’t even understand what’s happening. Of course she’s pissed about the whole Samir thing—she has every reason to be—but none of that is my fault. “Why are you blaming me for this? I didn’t make Samir pick you!”

“No, but if I’d left the ballroom when I was done dancing instead of waiting for you, I might’ve beaten him to the check-in point, and then he wouldn’t have been able to pick me.” She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Whatever, it’s not your fault you needed help. I just wish it had worked out differently. This next leg of the race is going to suck.”

“Miranda, he was already ahead of you! Even if you hadn’t waited for me, he still would’ve gotten there first.”

“Maybe. But I gave up what little chance I had to beat him,” she says. “There’s a big difference between a three-minute lead and a six-minute one.”

I can’t believe that after all I’ve overcome today, Miranda’s still making me look helpless and weak, like all I ever do is drag other people down. I never even asked her to stay with me in that ballroom; that was her choice, and now she’s throwing it all back in my face.

“What happened to ‘It’s no big deal’?” I say. My voice cracks, and I hate how young I sound.

“I said that before the Proposal Ceremony. At that point, I didn’t know it was a big deal.”

“So now you regret helping me? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I mean, I’m glad it made you feel better. Of course I don’t regret that. But maybe I’m not even helping you when I jump in like that. Maybe I’m just preventing you from learning to do things for yourself. It probably would’ve worked out better for both of us if I’d left you alone up there.”

It’s like she’s scouted out my body for weak spots and aimed a kick at the softest one. I’ve made so much progress on this race, and she’s dismissed it all with a couple of sentences. I open my mouth to defend myself, but I’m so stunned that I have no words.

“Good,” Tessa says. “Thanks, girls. We’ve got everything we need for today.”

I stumble out of the restaurant in a daze, still holding on to a slight hope that Miranda will apologize to me as soon as we’re out of range of the cameras. But she doesn’t, so I guess she really meant everything she said. Does she think I should be apologizing? I’m about to do it, just to get rid of this fog of resentment between us, but the words catch in my throat. I didn’t do anything wrong. Miranda has no right to blame me for the choices she makes.

When I turn down the hallway toward the stairs, she starts heading to the lobby instead. “Where are you going?” I say. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I need to walk around and clear my head.”

For a minute, I consider offering to go with her. Maybe I really do owe her for slowing her down today, and this would be a way to make amends. But it doesn’t seem fair that all the stuff she just said about self-sufficiency should apply only to me. If Miranda doesn’t have my back anymore, she can’t expect me to reach out to her, either. Waiting in room 217 is a boy who respects me and supports me and doesn’t see me as a child or a burden, and I’m not giving up my time alone with him. I’ve earned it. Miranda can deal with her own problems.

“I’m going to sleep,” I say.

“Fine. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I feel a little guilty as I head back to my room. But not that guilty.

I take a quick shower, trying to concentrate on the night ahead and let all my thoughts of Miranda fade away. When I get out, I blow-dry my hair—I tell myself it’s because I want it to look nice on camera tomorrow, but really I just want it to be shiny for Will. I wish I’d brought something cute and flirty to wear, but I don’t even own anything like that, so I pull on my shortest shorts and a plain pink tank top, which I tug down as low as I can to emphasize my minimal cleavage. I brush my teeth, just in case, rub on a little lip gloss, and pout at myself in the mirror. Not effortlessly sexy by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it’s a slight improvement.

Will’s room is on the same floor as mine, and it only takes about thirty seconds to find it, but I’m so nervous someone’s going to catch me sneaking down the hall that every tiny sound makes me jump. He answers the door in a clean T-shirt and a pair of low-riding basketball shorts, his hair damp and messy from the shower. I want to tangle my fingers in it like Philadelphia did to Aidan.

“Hey,” I say. I’m going for breathy, but I end up sounding like I’ve been jogging.

He breaks into a dimpled smile. “Hey! You came!”

I push into the room before he even has a chance to move out of the way, and my shoulder bangs into his. “Um, come on in,” he says, confused and laughing, as the door shuts behind me. “Are there wolves in the hall or something?”

“What?”

“You launched yourself in here like you were being chased. I mean, I know I’m irresistible, but …”

“I just didn’t want anyone to see me,” I say, pretty sure my cheeks are now the same color as my tank top.

He shakes his head. “Why do I always have to be everyone’s dirty little secret?”

I don’t love the implication that this isn’t his first secret tryst on the race, but I ignore it. “You’ve got nothing to complain about—I’m the one putting my million dollars at stake by wandering the halls.”

“I believe you mean my million dollars.” He grins at me. “Sit down.”

There’s a pile of clothes and a wet towel on the only chair in the room, so I perch on the edge of his bed. He flops down beside me and lies on his back, his head pillowed on his arms. “Oh my God, I’m so tired,” he says.

“How’d your interview go? How was the delightful Philly?” I put air quotes around her name with my voice.

Will rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

Just hearing him say those words rounds out all the sharp corners of the day. Will may have flirted with Philadelphia for the cameras, but he was just acting, like Troy. All my worrying was for nothing. I scoot farther onto the bed so I’m leaning against the headboard and try to suppress a silly grin.

“I don’t know how you even got through a whole leg of the race with her,” I say.

“Hey, it can’t have been much worse than your day with Troy the Beefcake.” He does some goofy muscleman poses, and I laugh. I kind of feel like I should defend Troy, but I don’t want to say anything positive about another guy in front of Will, in case he takes it the wrong way.

“Let’s just say I’m really glad to have you back,” I say.

“Likewise, Dominique.” He rolls over and grabs the remote off his nightstand. “You want to watch something?”

“Sure,” I say, and my heart leaps to attention. I’ve never snuck into a boy’s room before, but I’ve seen my fair share of romantic comedies, and it’s pretty obvious what’s going to happen next.

Will scrolls through a couple news channels until he finds a movie that involves a lot of things blowing up. There aren’t any subtitles, but it doesn’t matter—it’s not like we’re actually going to pay attention to the television. He switches off the lamp “so we can see the screen better,” stuffs a pillow under his head, and makes himself comfortable. I remember what I’ve learned from watching Speed Breed and try to make my body language as welcoming as possible: legs crossed in his direction, hand resting on the covers between us, head inclined toward him, lips slightly parted. I don’t think I could be any more obvious if I stood on the bed and screamed Kiss me! through a megaphone. I keep my eyes on the screen, not even registering the movie, and I wait.

But nothing happens.

And nothing happens.

And when I finally steal a glance at Will to see what’s taking so long, he’s asleep.

Seriously? We’re finally together in a room with a bed, all alone and far from the cameras, and he’s chosen to spend this time with me unconscious? I try to tell myself he didn’t mean to nod off—we’ve both had a long day, and I’m exhausted, too. We’ll have the whole flight tomorrow to hang out and talk. But talking isn’t what I want to do, and I feel totally cheated. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to end.

I’m about to get up and tiptoe back to my own room, where I’ll spend the rest of the night stewing in frustration and disappointment. But then it occurs to me that I really have no reason to leave. Who would know if I just stayed here tonight? It’s not like anyone’s going to come looking for me, and I can always sneak out early in the morning. If Will wakes up and finds me next to him, he’ll assume we both fell asleep watching the movie.

After the evening I’ve had, I deserve this.

Will sleeps with one arm flung over his head, legs spread out on top of the covers like a starfish. I carefully curl up on my side of the bed and watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. A streetlight shines through the curtains, highlighting the curve of his stubbled cheek, the straight slope of his nose, the dark hollow of his throat. A lock of his damp hair has fallen over one eye, and very tentatively, I reach out and brush it back. When he doesn’t react, I let my hand rest on the pillow next to his head, close enough to feel his breath on my fingers. But after a few minutes, that isn’t enough. My whole body aches to get closer to him.

So slowly it’s almost imperceptible, I start inching my way across the bed. There’s less than a foot of mattress between us, but the trek takes several long minutes, and by the time I’m close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, my heart is pounding like I’m about to commit a crime. I worry it might be loud enough to wake him. It’s probably loud enough to wake the whole hotel.

I spend another few minutes psyching myself up for the final approach. Then, in a rare moment of reckless bravery, I roll toward Will and drape my arm across his waist. There’s a thin stripe of bare skin between his T-shirt and his shorts, and I thrill at the warmth of it against the inside of my wrist. He shifts a little in his sleep, and I freeze, praying he won’t turn away. But he just sighs, and then he’s still. My arm moves gently up and down as he breathes.

When I’m certain he’s still deeply asleep, I scoot my hips a tiny bit closer, then slide my top leg over so it tangles with his. Now the whole length of our bodies is pressed together, and I think I might faint from the feel of so much contact at once. I rest my cheek against his chest, close my eyes, and try to relax enough to sleep, knowing I’ll regret it tomorrow if I don’t. But I can’t bear to let myself drift off. Every moment I spend unconscious is a moment I’ll be unaware of how close together we are.

I finally sink into sleep as the sun starts to rise, painting the ceiling of Will’s room in shades of watercolor pink, and I dream of kissing the edge of his hairline, the fragile curves of his eyelids, the dimple in his cheek, the tip of his nose. In my dream, he wakes and smiles just as I’m hovering a breath away from that gorgeous mouth. “Don’t stop,” he whispers against my lips.

And I don’t.