“Okay. Thanks. Sorry for waking you.”
“No problem.” She closes her door behind her, and I gaze around the living room. It’s spotless.
Never before has a tidy room given me such a sense of foreboding.
My head aches, so I sit on the couch and flick through a magazine for a few minutes, until I realize I’m barely looking at it. I toss it back onto the coffee table and head into Holt’s room. His bed has been made with military precision. Sitting open in the middle of it is … oh, God.
Is that his diary?
His neat writing covers both pages, and a pen lies along its spine.
Temptation, thy name is Holt’s Journal.
The urge to read it is almost impossible to resist, but I know how it feels to have your privacy invaded, and even though I’d give my left arm to get a sneak peek inside his brain, the breach of trust wouldn’t be worth it.
I close the book, careful not to look at what he’s written, and place it and the pen on the nightstand. Then I crawl onto the bed and shove my face into his pillow.
Hmmm. Smells so good.
Please don’t let him be angry with me. Let me be able to fix this.
Please.
Something brushes against my neck.
Lips. Warm breath.
I turn toward it, wanting more.
“Cassie?”
Shh. You’ll scare away the lips.
“Hey … you awake?”
“No. Shhh. More lips. My boyfriend will be back soon.”
The lips return. A different shape. Smiling?
They move up my neck, across my jaw. So soft but next to something rough. His chin. Cheek.
“Who do you think is kissing you?”
“Hmm. Orlando Bloom?”
Lips freeze, mid-kiss.
“Bloom? Seriously? Your boyfriend would kick that pasty Englishman’s ass.”
“Are you implying that you’re my boyfriend?”
More kisses that linger on my neck, then press softly against my ear. “I’m not implying anything. I’m stating it as fact.”
“Impossible. My boyfriend isn’t this affectionate.”
The lips stop. Breath exhales. Tension leaches from his body into mine.
I swallow, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“What I just said. What I said last night. Please don’t be angry. It was the wine’s fault.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Okay. You’re right. I can’t blame that entirely, but it helped.”
He cups my cheek. “Cassie, it wasn’t the wine, or you, or even Ruby, although I could hear her cheering you on. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine.”
The excuse I’m about to say dies on my tongue. I open one eye. “Um … what?”
“You called me a fucking terrible boyfriend, and you were right.”
Both eyes open. “Did I actually use those words?”
“Yes.”
“Even the ‘F’ word?”
“Yes. Not gonna lie, it made me kinda hard.”
I push up on my elbow and assess him. He must have just gotten out of the shower, because he’s only wearing boxers. The sight of his naked chest distracts me. What’s even more distracting is how he’s not flinching away from my scrutiny.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but what exactly are you saying?”
He drops onto his back and closes his eyes. “Everything you said. All the criticism … You were right. I’ve been keeping you at a distance.”
“Why?”
When he pauses, I stroke his arm to urge him on. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes and gazes at the ceiling. “Do you know what my first thought was when I walked in and found you in my bed?”
“What?”
“That you’d read my journal.”
“But I didn’t. I swear—”
He turns to me. “I know. When I stopped and thought about it, I realized you wouldn’t do that. And yet, my first instinct was to think the worst of you, because that’s how I cope with … things. People. I’m always prepared for the worst, so when it happens, I won’t be surprised. Or disappointed. I figure, if I don’t really try, I can’t really fail, right? So that’s what I’ve been doing.”
“Ethan—” I put my hand on his shoulder, and he tenses.
He sits up. “I was angry with you last night, really fucking angry, not because what you said was wrong, but because it was all true. You brought up all the things I hate about myself. Shit from my past that has no right affecting you but does.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to try harder. I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s all I can do, right?”
I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
“Try to do what?”
“Be … better.” He cups my face and kisses me. There’s an edge of desperation in the grip of his fingers, the way his eyes are still closed when he pulls back. “I can do this. Be the boyfriend you deserve.”
“I believe you.”
As I say it, I know I’m lying, but I do believe he’s going to try.
The next morning, I’m throwing the last of my books into my bag and shoving a piece of toast in my mouth when I hear a knock at my door.
I open it to see Ethan, smiling and holding out a cardboard cup.
“Dickachino?” I ask, concerned.
“No, just hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows.” He smirks and gives me a quick kiss.