Chapter Forty-Three

The hotel that Rory settled on later that day boasted three stars, its target market traveling businessmen who wanted a luxury or two. It was located about twenty minutes from the airport. The interior of the lobby was high-class but Spartan in its austerity.

After checking in, they stood side by side facing the king-size bed that took up a large part of their room. He had asked for a single room, but Octavia had insisted on a “nice big bed with lots of room to play.” The receptionist hadn’t even blinked at her suggestive wink. He would have preferred separate beds but had been forced to accept Octavia’s edict or risk making a scene in front of the receptionist. They were supposed to be newlyweds, after all.

She deposited her bag on one of the armchairs in the corner and gave him a warm smile. “What now, querido? How long do we have to stay here?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll call the admiral in a bit to ask how his arrangements are progressing,” he said wearily, dropping his duffel on the floor.

“You need to rest, querido.” She patted his tense shoulder affectionately. “You are all worn out.”

He gave her a look, even as she carefully stepped out of reach. “I could do with some sleep.”

“But first you must eat, yes? You must take good care of yourself.”

He remained silent, examining her worried features even as she took the takeout food from him and made for the small table on the other side of the room. It must be exhaustion and stress that made him feel resentful toward her, because he literally felt it churn in his gut.

What was it about this woman that kept getting under his skin? It took her hardly any effort at all. A look. A touch. Even just a word could set off a riot of emotions he had no control over—frustration, desire, anger, caring. Sometimes it scared him, this effect she had on him.

“You do a good enough job for the both of us,” he groused, combing his hand through the tangle of his hair.

She smiled. “Sorry. I do have a tendency to take care of others.”

Forcing a breath out in slow exhale, Rory made himself say, “Don’t apologize.”

She turned and tilted her head. “You are angry with me.” She walked back and didn’t stop until she was standing right in front of him.

“No. I’m not.”

“I think you are. There is this muscle pulling…right here.” She touched the spot with the tips of her fingers, then trailed them gently down his cheek.

He clasped his hand over hers and held on as he stared into her eyes. He wished for a moment that they were somewhere else, someone else, unburdened by suffering, guilt, and obligation.…

But they weren’t.

Gently, he took her hand away from his face and let it go with more regret than he dared admit, even to himself.

Especially himself.

“You look sad,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he said. “This is my worried look.”

But he knew it was a lie.

She was right. In a way he was sad.

Because he’d never be able to see if the peaceful fantasy could ever come true.

Not with her.