738 Days: A Novel (11 page)

But as soon as they see me coming, they turn away, pretending to be occupied by something else. Checking in, reading a free newspaper from one of the little metal stands, or, God, staring up at the ceiling. Really?

Chase is behind me, his steps slower. “You didn’t need to do that,” he says. “I could have handled it.”

I turn and wait for him to catch up. “Really?” I ask. “I’m not sure this would have worked nearly as well if I had to visit you in jail.”

He makes a face, that generous and wide mouth twisting with displeasure. “I’m working on it, okay?”

I’m distracted momentarily, flustered. Why would I be paying any attention to his mouth? “Do you have a problem with the police?” I ask evenly, determined to keep this conversation—and rehabilitation plan—on track.

“No,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets as we move deeper into the lobby.

I look at him.

“Not anymore,” he says. “They have a problem with me.” He sighs. “I did some stupid shi … stuff when I was younger.”

He’s censoring his language in front of me? I can’t decide if that’s funny or kind of insulting, like he still sees me as a child. Lots of people do. Once you’re in the victim role, it’s hard for people to treat you as anything other than someone who needs to be protected.

But I’m only four years younger than Chase, and I don’t have a whole lot of innocence left to protect, unfortunately.

“I had friends who maybe didn’t have my best interests in mind,” he continues. “Not that I’m trying to pin the blame on them,” he says quickly, in a manner that suggests he’s been accused of doing just that. “I did it. All of it. Willingly, eagerly, even.” He hesitates. “It’s just…”

“Easier to lose track of yourself when there are all these other voices shouting at you?” I offer. I know that feeling. I’ve been living with it for the last two years.

He glances at me sharply, as if seeing me for the first time. “Yeah, something like that,” he says with a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Welcome back,
Mr. Dean
.” The front desk girl practically leans across the polished wooden counter to beam at him as we cross the lobby.

I raise an eyebrow at Chase.

“Fake name,” he mumbles. “Not my idea.”

Yeah,
that’s
what I was reacting to. “James or Jimmy?” I ask instead.

It takes him a second. “The sausage guy?”

I nod.

His mouth—what is wrong with me?—quirks in a wicked smile. “Definitely the sausage guy.”

I roll my eyes. Good grief. But a part of me is pleased that he didn’t hesitate to play with the innuendo.

“Hey,” he says to the front desk girl. “Thanks. This is…” He hesitates and lowers his voice, in deference to those who are lurking around the lobby. “This is Amanda Gr—”

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Dean.” She—her brass-colored name tag says
SHARA
—smiles at him so hard it makes my cheeks ache in sympathy. “I know who she is. All the arrangements have been made, and I have the reservation information right here.”

Pulled up, no doubt, the second she saw us through the windows. Or, rather, the second she saw Chase.

At least, that’s what I think until she turns that same awestruck smile on me. “Miss Grace, we’ll be checking you in under the name Mrs. Dean to preserve your privacy, as requested, and you’ll be in the room adjoining Mr. Dean’s.” A faint pink blush rises in her cheeks.

“What?” Chase and I say at the same time. I can feel a sudden heat crawling up my neck. What exactly does she think is going on here?

Shara looks startled. “I’m sorry. Do I have that wrong? Ms. Prescott left very explicit instructions before she checked out.”

Next to me, Chase stiffens. “I bet,” he mutters.

“Ms. Prescott?” I murmur.

“Publicist,” he says.

Ah, Elise. The one he fired, who, from the looks of her photo on his phone, might have been more than just an employee. So, she was pissed, and this was her passive-aggressive parting gift. Nice.

I plaster a polite smile on my face. “I’m sure Shara can find another room in the hotel for me. I don’t want to intrude on Mr. Dean’s privacy.”

Her confused gaze flicks between Chase and me. “I can check,” she says to me with a nod. “I also have a note for you, Mr. Dean, from Ms. Prescott before she checked out.” Shara holds out a folded slip of paper.

Chase takes it from her, his mouth curving down in distaste. He barely glances at the message inside before crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket. Then again, it doesn’t take long to read “fuck you,” which is likely the spirit of the message, if not the exact wording.

Shara types on her computer, each loud clack of the keys echoing through the quiet lobby. It feels like a Klaxon going off, drawing even more attention to us. We’re the only ones at the desk, which helps, but I can still sense other people in the lobby. Footsteps across the floor behind us. The quiet whoosh of the automatic doors opening or closing. A cough from the club chairs arranged in front of the big stone fireplace. I don’t know if they’re people Chase knows or not.

Experience keeps me facing forward, away from prying eyes.

“I do have something on the first floor,” Shara says after a moment. “It’s not one of our luxury rooms. But it is handicapped accessible, so it’s right near the door.” She offers this last tidbit with a hopeful smile, as if that will make up for the lack of a mini-fridge or king-sized bed.

But all I hear is “right near the door”; in other words, kidnap adjacent. Easy access. Prime bad-guy territory. Just prop the door open and lurk nearby, waiting for your victim. Or break open the room window and drag her out into a van. Smash and grab.

My palms start to sweat, and I surreptitiously wipe them against my pants.

I force myself to maintain my smile, even though I can feel the muscles protesting. “Sure, that sounds great.” I’m proud that my tone stays mostly level.

“I’ll make the change right now,” Shara says.

Chase frowns at me, studying my face, and something must have shown in my expression, despite my efforts.

“Wait,” he says, stopping Shara as she begins to type again. “The original arrangements are fine.” He hesitates. “If that’s okay with you? There’s a door between the rooms,” he adds quietly. “You can keep it locked.”

Shara looks away, pretending not to listen, and awkwardness spills out all over the lobby. My face is hot, and I’m not even sure why. It feels like there’s a spotlight shining down on us, even though I can’t see anyone other than Shara.

“It’s a deadbolt, so the key card won’t open—” Chase says.

“I’m familiar with the mechanics of a deadbolt,” I say quickly and under my breath. I just want to get out of here. It feels like all my vulnerabilities and “issues” are on display.

Shara, thankfully, seems just as relieved to be moving on to the next stage of check-in. Key cards, two, for me. She pushes them in a little envelope across the counter to me without comment, her smile dimmed a little but still firmly in place.

“Thank you for choosing the Wescott Inn,” she calls after us as we step away from the counter.

Chase leads the way, stalking toward the elevators without waiting for me.

I follow him. His head is down, his shoulders hunched, his hands jammed in his pockets, and I’m not sure if that’s an unconscious defense against anyone who might be watching or if it’s just his way of pushing off any potential conversation with me. He didn’t seem angry a few seconds ago, when he offered to keep the adjoining room arrangements, but now I’m not so sure.

I catch up to him at the elevator doors and stay quiet, just in case. He jabs at the button for the elevator with enough force that it sounds like it hurts, and suddenly, I’m leaning toward the “angry” explanation.

Great.

I study the mirrored doors in front of us, my reflection next to Chase’s. He is staring at the floor, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, lost in thought or just avoiding me—I’m not sure which—which gives me plenty of opportunity.

It’s like an image out of bizarro world, the two of us in one place. I know his face almost as well as my own, but this version, the real, non-Photoshopped version, is different, not just older, and I catch myself playing “find the difference.”

The thin line of a scar above his left eyebrow. The spray of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. The dark circles under his eyes that speak to stress and sleepless nights.

His T-shirt is rumpled. There’s a tuft of dark blond hair sticking up a little at the crown of his head, which is, frankly, kind of adorable.

He is so … real. Which sounds completely ridiculous. Of course he’s real. He always has been. Just because I didn’t know him then didn’t make him less of an actual person.

But it’s a strange feeling, a duality of sorts, as if the guy who posed for the poster I know so well and this man next to me are two different people.

Despite the intimacy of the perfect Chase who lived in my head for years, talking to me and soothing me, this Chase, the one with the flaws and money problems, the one who knows about cows and mucking barns, feels so much more real, more approachable, even. He understands what it means to screw up, to be afraid and desperate.

Without even knowing why the first-floor room bothered me—I doubt my logic about the accessibility for criminals would leap to mind for most normal people—he intervened, at the expense of his own privacy. Something he probably doesn’t get a lot of.

And then there’s that bit of sticking-up hair that I just want to reach over and smooth into place …

My heart gives a funny little quiver, and a vaguely familiar warmth floods through my chest. It takes me a second to place the sensation. The last time I felt this way, I was staring at C. J. Weymouth in the trumpet section of band freshman year, with my best friend, Casey, whispering in my ear about how she heard that trumpet players were the best kissers. Strong lips and all.

No.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
I
cannot
be attracted to Chase Henry.

I spin to face away from him, though he’s not even looking in my direction.

This crazy plan is already shaky enough; I don’t need to take it out at the legs. And that’s exactly what letting myself be attracted to him will do.

I don’t need this. I can’t have this.

Someday.
That’s what my mom always says with a distant smile whenever the topic of guys or relationships comes up. I mean, I have trouble leaving the house sometimes. Dating is a little out of the question.

Besides, who in their right mind would undertake the challenge of … well, me? I still flinch when well-meaning people pat me on the shoulder.

Not that any of that even remotely mattered. When the part of you that registers attraction is dead, or at least in a coma, for more than four years, it’s kind of a nonissue.

Until now. Apparently.

I cast another glance over my shoulder at Chase, who’s jabbing at the elevator button again, his jaw tight with frustration. I can see the muscles ticking beneath his skin, and the faint stubble on his cheek catches in the bright cast of the overhead light, making it glint like gold.

And I find myself imagining what that would feel like under my fingertips.

What is wrong with me? This is absolutely the worst time for that part of my brain or limbic system or hormones or whatever to wake up.

Tearing my gaze away from Chase, I force myself to focus on the floor, on the random shading patterns in the tile.

I’m not going to do this. It would look completely pathetic from the outside, maybe even to Chase himself. Like I’d transferred all my feelings generated by a poster to the real thing, regardless of the person beneath the face.

Besides, even if I was ready, Chase Henry would be the very
last
person to consider a viable candidate.

I saw that picture of Elise on his phone, looking warm, naked, and sated. And that was someone he worked with. It was clearly casual, coworkers with benefits. I doubt very much that he’d be interested in the kind of challenge I’d present.

A flash of bitterness zips through my veins before vanishing. There’s no point in focusing on hating what happened to me, wishing it hadn’t. Been there, done that. I’m here to move on. Or at least try to.

That’s what I need to concentrate on. Nothing else.

“Amanda?”

Chase’s voice startles me, and I turn to find him at the threshold of the now-open elevator, his arm across the door to keep it from closing.

“You coming?” he asks, his eyebrows raised in question or possibly concern.

“Uh-huh.” I lift my chin and do my best to pretend that my face is not red as I hurry toward him.

He edges a step out of the way, still holding the door but making sure that I have plenty of room to pass without bumping into him.

And the recently awakened part of myself gives a tiny appreciative flutter. How did Elise give this up? Granted, Chase wants something from me, but I don’t get a forced vibe from this. If anything, this thoughtfulness seems more like habit. A really nice habit, actually.

“She must have been really pissed at you.” The words escape before I can stop them, and I clamp my lips together belatedly.

He pushes the button for five and looks over at me, his brows drawn together in a frown. “Who?”

“Elise.” It’s unavoidable now that I’ve blurted it out.

“Yeah, she … definitely has her own agenda,” he says with distaste.

Silence falls as the doors close.

I shift my weight from foot to foot. The space feels too small with Chase on the other side of it. I’m too aware of him now, unfortunately, and that brings with it a whole slew of thoughts and questions I don’t really want to contemplate.

Like, what does he look like naked?

Stop, stop, stop.

How long can it possibly take for an elevator to get to the top of a five-story building? Seriously.

“I’m sorry about not being able to take the other room,” I say, more to distract myself than anything else. “It’s just that the first floor kind of—”

The elevator dings, interrupting me, and the doors roll back.