Unwrapped (4 page)

Rejection slaps me round the face all over
again. “Of course, right, sure,” I agree quickly. “As long as you
don’t snore!”

We ride up the elevator in silence, avoiding eye
contact. The Muzak fills the space between us, a weird pan-pipe
version of a Top 40 pop hit. “I always wonder about the people who
make this music,” I babble, desperate to break the awkwardness. “I
mean, do they like it? Are they going home in the evening, like,
‘hey, honey, I had the best day recording a watered-down version of
Katy Perry!’”

Daniel cracks a smile. “I think it would be more
a guilty secret. They feel shameful every time they cash a
check.”

“At least they’re cashing checks,” I sigh,
thinking of my own negative bank account. Daniel gives me a curious
look, but thankfully, the elevator stops at our floor, cutting the
conversation short.

Our room is just down the hall. I fumble with
the keycard, and then fling open the door. “Home, sweet home!”

I step inside to find more beige carpet, a tiny
TV, and a bed.

One bed.

One.

We both stop, just inside the doorway. “Oh.” I
say, feeling a treacherous flicker of happiness.

“I can take the couch,” Daniel says quickly,
hauling our bags over to the side of the room.

“That’s not a couch, it’s a glorified armchair,”
I protest, looking around. “You know, maybe it’s just two twins
pushed together.” I go over to the bed and pat down the middle.
Nope.

“Then I’ll sleep on the floor.” Daniel coughs.
He’s red in the face, and I realize with horror that he’d rather
crash on the hard carpeting than share a bed with me. Does he think
I’m going to jump him in the middle of the night or something?

“You know what, we can figure it out later,” I
try to block out the stab of rejection that spirals through me.
“It’s still early.”

“Right,” Daniel agrees quickly. “You should get
out of those clothes.”

My eyes widen.

“To dry off!” Daniel exclaims, his voice
twisted. “Because you’re wet. From the snow.”

“So are you.”

There’s a pause as we stare at each other, eyes
locked. My heart stops, and suddenly, the world seems to shrink,
contracting around us until there’s nothing but me and him,
together in the small room. Daniel’s dark hair is plastered to his
head, dripping water down his jaw; his sweater clings to that
muscular torso, and for a crazy moment, I think about launching
myself across the bed at him and ripping those damp clothes right
off his body. His jaw clenches with tension, and I can almost
imagine that look in his eyes is desire. Then he looks away,
clearing his throat.

“You can use the bathroom first, if you
want.”

“Thanks!” I yelp. I grab my bags, and flee for
the bathroom, locking the door behind me and sinking down on the
edge of the tub with a sigh.

Get a grip, Lacey!

The poor guy isn’t interested, that much is
crystal clear, but here I am, fantasizing about getting him naked
and exploring his body with my tongue …

I snap out of it, reaching for my case. But as I
unzip the travel bag, I realize with a sinking heart that I checked
the case with my real clothes. This is the bag full of wedding
stuff: my high-heeled sandals, makeup, my bridesmaids gown …

I hold it up, carefully shaking out the silk.
It’s not so much a gown as a cocktail dress: slinky red silk, with
tiny spaghetti straps and a low, plunging back. Juliet said I could
pick anything I liked, and I figured the red would be festive: just
throw on a cute faux-fur jacket, and call me Mrs. Santa Claus!

But now, here, with Daniel …?

It’s either this or pneumonia, so I quickly duck
under the hot jets of the shower and dry off, slipping the dress
over my head. It settles around my curves in a swoosh of silky
fabric, and even though I wish I had jeans and a sweatshirt
instead, I have to admit, it looks great.

What the hell.

I twist my hair up in a simple knot, then slick
on some mascara and lipstick to finish the look. There’s no way I
can wear a bra under the dress, so I just shimmy on some black lace
underwear and strap on a cute pair of my high-heeled sandals.
There.

I take a final look in the mirror. I’m crazy
over-dressed — hell, I look like I’m ready for a black-tie event,
not the crappy bar of the TravelLodge — but at least I look
good.

If I’m going to pretend like I could care less
about Daniel, then I need to be looking good.

I take a breath, and open the bathroom door.

“Hey, do you have a charger?” Daniel is
searching through his bag. He’s changed into sweatpants and a
college T-shirt, the faded old one I always loved him in: clinging
to his torso, soft enough to touch. “I think I left mine in—”

He looks up and stops mid-sentence.

“What?” I flush, aware of his gaze. I look down
at the outfit, suddenly second-guessing it all over again. “Yes, I
know, it’s OTT, but it’s all I had.”

Daniel clears his throat. “It’s fine,” he says
dismissively, looking away. “So do you have that charger?”

I blink.

“My battery is nearly dead,” Daniel continues,
moving to check the outside pockets on his laptop bag. “If it goes
dead, I’m screwed.”

“Sure,” I say quietly, a sting in my throat. I
don’t know what I expected from him, but now I feel like a stupid
little girl, all dolled up like this. I go quickly back to my bags,
and dig out the phone charger. “Here,” I hold it out to him,
avoiding his gaze. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” Daniel plugs in, and scrolls through
his phone, ignoring me. I wait, painfully self-conscious as the
seconds tick by.

He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t say another
word. It’s like I don’t even exist.

Rejection wells up, and I bite my lip to keep it
back. “I need a drink,” I announce, honest. “I’m going to the bar.
You coming?”

Daniel makes a vague gesture, still keeping his
eyes fixed on his phone. “I’ve got some emails to catch up on.”

“On Christmas Eve?” I ask.

“No rest,” Daniel gives me a brief, tense smile.
“You go ahead.”

My heart falls. “See you later.”

I grab my purse and bolt from the room, not
stopping until the elevator doors close behind me and I can finally
let my fake smile drop.

What did you expect?
I
scold myself, miserable. The dress that moments ago had seemed so
gorgeous now looks cheap and slutty in the mirrors.
He doesn’t notice you. He never has.
After all that
time secretly wanting him, it should be clear as day: I’ll never be
the girl for him, that sweet good girl he seems to want so much.
I’m the last thing on his mind.

Damn, I need that drink.

***

The door closes behind Lacey. I let out a
strangled groan, the breath I’ve been holding in ever since she
stepped out of the bathroom and short-circuited every nerve in my
system.

What the hell?

I sink down on the bed, still trying to recover
from the sight of her in that dress: red silk whispering across her
body, so goddamn sexy I thought I was going to come right there on
the spot. That woman is a miracle, a walking, talking fantasy come
to life, and I’m supposed to spend the night in the same room as
her without losing my mind?

You are so screwed.

I fall back, staring at the ceiling. Goddamn. It
was bad enough when we made it up here to the room, and she was
standing there: her T-shirt clinging, wet to her body; her hair
falling in damp tendrils over her eyes. I swear it took everything
I had not to pull her down on the bed and show her everything she’s
been missing out on, dating all those bad boy assholes who don’t
know the first thing about pleasing a woman. Worshipping her body,
inch by precious inch, until she’s molten under my hands, writhing,
begging for release. No, Lacey doesn’t know what I could do to her
— with her — the kind of pleasure that comes slow and hot and
steady in the night, relentless, until she thinks she can’t take it
anymore.

And then she had to walk out in that dress, like
a neon ‘fuck you’ to my self-control.

I feel myself stiffen, hard at just the thought
of her. Jesus, what a mess. We’re technically spending the night
together, but here I am, crazy with wanting her, while she’s
downstairs, alone in the bar.

Alone? You’re kidding yourself. Looking like
that, she’s probably getting hit on by every cocky asshole in the
state …

I bolt to my feet, my whole body tensing at the
thought of her with somebody else. No way, not on my watch. Before
I can even think straight, I’m out the door and down the hallway.
The elevator is taking its sweet time arriving, so I take the
stairs instead, two at a time in my hurry to get down to the bar
and …

What? Just what are you going to do? Throw
her over your shoulder and take her back up to the room? Spend the
night working through all those dirty fantasies you’ve been
dreaming up, ever since moment you laid eyes on her again?

No. No way.

I stop short in the lobby, forcing myself to
think it over: to be calm, and have a plan like always. This crazy
lust I’m feeling is just that: crazy. There’s no way I’m hooking up
with Lacey, it makes no sense at all. I’m just going to look out
for her, that’s all. Like, a big brother would. That’s right. She’s
stressed about the wedding, all in a fluster; I’m just making sure
she doesn’t get in any trouble, dressed up like temptation and
looking twice as fun.

I’ve got myself back under control by the time I
stroll into the bar, but my whole body still tenses when I see her
over in the corner, leaning flirtatiously against the bar and
chatting to some slick douchebag in a designer suit. His eyes are
stripping her naked, and even though I’m not a violent guy, I
suddenly get a vision of slamming his face into the bar until he’s
bleeding.

Whatever happened to cool, calm, and in
control?

I clench my jaw in frustration. “There you are,”
I stride over and take my place at the bar beside her. “You left so
fast, I wasn’t sure you remembered our keycard.”

“Nope.” Lacey gives me a confused look, then
turns back to the guy, quickly explaining. “This is my friend
Daniel. The place was sold out, so we had to split a room.”

I’m distracted by the back of her outfit, the
dress falling in a swoop over the bare of her back. I imagine how
soft it would be to touch, what she’d feel like under my hands
…

“Whiskey, straight.” I order, needing to snap
the hell out of this. When I drag my focus back again, the
Douchebag is telling the story of how he was heading back home from
a corporate party in LA when he got snowed in too.

“He was on our flight too, I didn’t even
notice.” Lacey smiles.

“But I certainly noticed you,” Douchebag gives
her a slimy grin, and Lacey giggles.

“You didn’t.”

“Everybody on the plane noticed you, darlin’.”
He grins. “I just figured you and he were, you know.” He looks from
her to me and back again.

“What, Daniel? No way!” Lacey snorts with
laughter. “We go way back. He’s like a brother to me.” She pats my
shoulder, and although I was trying to tell myself the same thing
not ten seconds ago, it still burns to hear her say it.

“Good to know,” the Douchebag gives her a long
look, not even trying to hide his stare. His eyes linger on her
breasts, wrapped up like a Christmas gift in that red silk, and I
have to clench my hands into fists at my side to stop from leaning
over and throttling the smug expression off his face.

“Did you call Juliet yet?” I change the subject,
focussing back on Lacey. Her face drops, and I feel bad for ruining
her good mood, but I need to get her away from this asshole before
I do some serious damage. “You should call now, let her know what
happened. She’ll worry,” I add.

Lacey sighs. “Fine,” she slides down off her
stool in a ripple of fabric. “I’ll be right back,” she coos at the
Douchebag, sliding her hand along his shoulder as she passes.

We both watch her go, the swing of her hips as
she sashays out to the lobby, reaching into her purse for her
phone. Douchebag is practically drooling, and I feel a flash of
guilt: I’m just as bad, lusting after her like this.

Except you won’t be doing
anything about it,
I remind myself.

The moment she’s gone, I take a step closer and
drop my voice. “You need to leave. Now.”

Douchebag stares back, confused. “What?”

“Put the drink down, pick your ass up, and get
the fuck out of here. This minute.” My voice is low, but there’s no
mistaking that I’m not fucking around.

“Is this about the girl?” Douchebag snorts,
looking me up and down. “Sorry, dude, you’re too late. Don’t blame
you for trying though,” he adds, smug. “The crazy ones are the
best, right? They let you do all kinds of fucked-up shit.”