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A FEW HOURS LATER, Mike and I get out of a taxi in front of the Manhattan hotel where we’ll be staying for the weekend.
My stomach is churning with discomfort after the flight, airport, and long cab ride, and I vaguely wonder—as I always do whenever I visit this city—why I do this to myself.
I could have said no to this trip, but I didn’t.
When I see Mike giving me a sidelong look, I force a smile.
“You all right?” he asks, obviously not convinced by my attempt at nonchalance. He puts a hand on my back as he guides me into the chaotic ground floor of the hotel.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t believe me. There’s concern on his face as we head upstairs to the check-in desk, which requires maneuvering through random crowds of people whose only purpose seems to be getting in our way.
There’s a line to check in. Of course there is. There are way too many people in this one space, and it’s making me tense. As always, I try to hide it, keeping my eyes down and breathing deeply.
We stand in silence in the line for just over a minute, Mike’s lean body only inches from mine. He’s wearing khakis and an untucked green-and-brown-checked shirt. Just slightly wrinkled, as all his shirts seem to be.
He leans in and mutters against my ear, “Tell me what the hell is wrong with you right now.”
I blink at the gruff authority of his soft voice. “Nothing,” I begin. Then I see his expression and add quickly, “It’s really nothing big. I just don’t... don’t like New York.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too many people. Too many buildings. All crammed together. It makes me... anxious.”
His eyebrows lift. “Really? Atlanta is a pretty big city. It doesn’t make you anxious?”
“Not like New York does. Particularly Manhattan. It’s just too much, all squeezed together on a little island. I feel trapped here. Like the buildings are closing in on me. Like I can’t get away. Like the whole thing is swallowing me up. It’s not a major phobia or anything. It just makes me... anxious.”
The line is moving. Mike steps closer to me, putting his hand again on my back. This time he leaves it there, his palm pressing gently just between my shoulder blades. It’s strangely comforting. It lessens the churning of my stomach. “Why didn’t I know that about you?”
I sniff. “Why would you?”
“I don’t know. We’ve known each other for three years. I thought we were...” He clears his throat. “Aren’t we friends?”
“Yes! Yes, I think so.” Because I’m suddenly worried that he’s hurt, I start to ramble, which is something I rarely let myself do. “I just don’t tell anyone. I don’t know why. All kinds of things make me anxious, but I don’t tell anyone about them except Weston. It just feels like... I always try to put on this front of having it all together. Like when I was a girl on the flight and couldn’t admit I was scared about it. I’ve done it all my life. And now I... I don’t know how to be anything else.”
He meets my worried eyes. His are thoughtful. Terrifyingly observant. Like he might be able to see past the composure I’ve cultivated for so long—maybe as far down as my soul. “Well, it’s worked,” he murmurs at last.
“What’s worked?” So maybe my mind is spinning from the look in his eyes. I’m not thinking as clearly as I should.
“Your act. The way you pretend to always have it together and be completely in control. I was... I was fooled.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. And I’ve got to say it was damned intimidating.”
“What?” (Definitely not thinking at full capacity here.)
“It’s intimidating. Believing you were really like that. Like you didn’t really need...”
His trailing off is incredibly frustrating since I’m leaning into what he’s saying, but I don’t get a chance to prompt him to continue because a clerk calls us up to check in.
Our rooms are next to each other, and they’re exactly the same. King-size bed with white coverlet. Walk-in shower. Expansive view. I’m surprised when, after we identify whose room is whose, Mike follows me into mine.
My eyes widen, and I stop myself from blurting out a confused question about what he wants.
“So what’s your plan?” he asks, his eyes surveying the clean, polished furnishings.
“What plan?”
“What do you want to happen this evening?”
I gulp. Is he asking this for real? There’s no way I’ll be able to admit what I really want to happen this weekend—that Mike would fall deeply, miraculously in love with me. “W-what?”
He gives a soft huff of amusement and cocks his head. “I know we have the brunch tomorrow and then we fly home. But do you want me to make myself scarce for the rest of today? I’m happy to do that, if you want to do your own thing. Or did you want to...” He makes a weird throaty noise and drops his eyes. “...to hang out with me or what?”
I suddenly understand what he’s asking. My heart gives a ridiculous gallop at how adorably self-conscious he looks. “Oh. I see. Well, the truth is I don’t have any plans. But all you need to do with me is the brunch tomorrow, so you don’t have to keep me company today unless you...” My cheeks warm.
He laughs for real—low and warm and husky. “Okay. I think I’ve got it. So let me lay it out for you. I’ve got nothing to do here this evening. If you want to be alone or spend time with other people, I’ll be perfectly happy to hang out in my room. But otherwise consider me available for anything you might want.”
His tone shifts at the end of his last sentence. I’m sure it’s not intentional on his part, but the timbre becomes just slightly gravelly. Incredibly sensual. It makes my skin flush and a pressure tighten between my legs.
Because there’s one thing I definitely want that he can provide.
***
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