Jersey Six(24)

“G?” He tossed her a quick glance as they slowed to a walk a few yards from the entrance to the hotel.

“Yes.” She shrugged. “I never knew her name. Everyone called her G. And she didn’t ask us to call her anything different than that because she didn’t really talk much, but neither did I.” Her brows drew inward. “I don’t know what happened to G. Mr. Fisher ended up in the hospital, and I heard rumors that he died. So maybe G ended up in juvie or prison if she was tried as an adult.”

Ian’s concentrated expression mirrored Jersey’s when she glanced up at him as they stopped just inside of the hotel lobby. Whispers and giggles surrounded them as a few women abandoned their rolling suitcases on their way out of the hotel to stop and take photos of Ian—not so discreetly trying to capture a distant selfie with him.

Jersey let their shameless photo op pull her attention away from Ian and away from her ugly past.

“Can I get a picture?” A teenaged girl sidled up to Ian as her parents gave him an apologetic smile.

Ian rested his arm on the girl’s shoulder and posed without hesitation. She was one of them … one of the people who would show up so he could sing, and he clearly felt grateful for her.

After several pictures, he rested his hand on Jersey’s back and guided her to the elevators. Her spine stiffened, unsure what to do with him touching her. The girl with a past of sexual abuse didn’t like people touching her, except Chris. She came to find comfort in his touch, maybe because it wasn’t sexual. But what made her most uncomfortable about Ian’s hand on her back was how it made her feel those flutters in her stomach again.

“Oh …” Her lips formed an O as he used his room key card to access her floor.

He lifted a single brow, smirking at her as the elevator doors closed. “You still don’t have a key card, do you?”

Jersey’s head inched side to side.

“Did you tell Chris where you were going?”

She continued to shake her head, gazing straight at the mirrored elevator doors and the reflection of the tall and distractingly sexy man beside her.

“Max?”

“Nope.” She pursed her lips to hide her grin.

“So you wanted to be homeless in New York instead of New Jersey. I see … because the plane was and is leaving with or without you in less than an hour.”

“Lesson learned,” she mumbled, sporting a tight grin and wide eyes.

The doors opened to her floor.

“Do I need to help you find your room?”

“Six-one-nine.” She stepped off the elevator with her chin held high again as if remembering three digits made up for her other missteps that almost lead to abandonment.

Ian followed her, grabbing her hand as she took a left instead of a right.

Her hand. Not her arm—like the gentle nudge with his hand on her back in the lobby. Ian Cooper took Jersey’s hand and her breath in one quick move.

It was warm against her cold. She couldn’t find a full inhale of oxygen as he pulled her down the hallway. “We’re on the ninth floor, Ferdinand. So your room number has to start with a nine. So maybe 916? Or 961?”

Nope. He didn’t kill the Russells. Murderers had cold hands. Jersey knew this because she had cold hands, except when she was boxing.

At room 916, Ian released her hand like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal—a big, warm, tummy-doing-weird-things kind of deal. He knocked twice on the door.

“For the love of god, where have you been?” Chris leaned against the door to keep it open while pressing his palms to his temples, his signature reaction to too much stress.

The butterflies in Jersey’s tummy died. She worried Chris. Had she just told him, the unnecessary worry could have been prevented. “I’m sorry.” She eased her hands around his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his head, waiting for him to look at her and see the sincerity in her eyes, the true apology on her face.

“Why were you with him?”

Glancing over at Ian, she attempted to brush off Chris’s harsh question with a nervous smile. “I wasn’t. We just ran into each other while jogging. I didn’t have a key to get up the elevator.”

Chris clenched his jaw, refusing to look at Ian.

Jersey pressed her hand to Chris’s chest. “Get dressed or grab another shower. Yes, a shower. Go take a shower to relax your mind. I’m fine. We’re leaving in less than an hour.”

Chris’s nostrils flared as he blew out a long breath. “M-maybe.” He nodded.

“Go.” Jersey pushed him toward the bathroom. After Chris slid the door shut, she wrinkled her nose and faced Ian. “He has some PTSD.”

Ian lifted his chin as his brows slid up his forehead. “I … see,” he replied with apprehension to his voice. “What happened to him?”

“We don’t know. He has no memory of anything. No family … nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

She returned a half smile.

“I need to go shower. I’ll meet you guys out front in…” he glanced at his watch again “…thirty-five minutes. But I’m guessing Max will be knocking on your door in less than fifteen.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He shared his mischievous grin one last time before heading back down the hallway.