For Real(54)

“Hey,” I say. I’m going for breathy, but I end up sounding like I’ve been jogging.

He breaks into a dimpled smile. “Hey! You came!”

I push into the room before he even has a chance to move out of the way, and my shoulder bangs into his. “Um, come on in,” he says, confused and laughing, as the door shuts behind me. “Are there wolves in the hall or something?”

“What?”

“You launched yourself in here like you were being chased. I mean, I know I’m irresistible, but …”

“I just didn’t want anyone to see me,” I say, pretty sure my cheeks are now the same color as my tank top.

He shakes his head. “Why do I always have to be everyone’s dirty little secret?”

I don’t love the implication that this isn’t his first secret tryst on the race, but I ignore it. “You’ve got nothing to complain about—I’m the one putting my million dollars at stake by wandering the halls.”

“I believe you mean my million dollars.” He grins at me. “Sit down.”

There’s a pile of clothes and a wet towel on the only chair in the room, so I perch on the edge of his bed. He flops down beside me and lies on his back, his head pillowed on his arms. “Oh my God, I’m so tired,” he says.

“How’d your interview go? How was the delightful Philly?” I put air quotes around her name with my voice.

Will rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

Just hearing him say those words rounds out all the sharp corners of the day. Will may have flirted with Philadelphia for the cameras, but he was just acting, like Troy. All my worrying was for nothing. I scoot farther onto the bed so I’m leaning against the headboard and try to suppress a silly grin.

“I don’t know how you even got through a whole leg of the race with her,” I say.

“Hey, it can’t have been much worse than your day with Troy the Beefcake.” He does some goofy muscleman poses, and I laugh. I kind of feel like I should defend Troy, but I don’t want to say anything positive about another guy in front of Will, in case he takes it the wrong way.

“Let’s just say I’m really glad to have you back,” I say.

“Likewise, Dominique.” He rolls over and grabs the remote off his nightstand. “You want to watch something?”

“Sure,” I say, and my heart leaps to attention. I’ve never snuck into a boy’s room before, but I’ve seen my fair share of romantic comedies, and it’s pretty obvious what’s going to happen next.

Will scrolls through a couple news channels until he finds a movie that involves a lot of things blowing up. There aren’t any subtitles, but it doesn’t matter—it’s not like we’re actually going to pay attention to the television. He switches off the lamp “so we can see the screen better,” stuffs a pillow under his head, and makes himself comfortable. I remember what I’ve learned from watching Speed Breed and try to make my body language as welcoming as possible: legs crossed in his direction, hand resting on the covers between us, head inclined toward him, lips slightly parted. I don’t think I could be any more obvious if I stood on the bed and screamed Kiss me! through a megaphone. I keep my eyes on the screen, not even registering the movie, and I wait.

But nothing happens.

And nothing happens.

And when I finally steal a glance at Will to see what’s taking so long, he’s asleep.

Seriously? We’re finally together in a room with a bed, all alone and far from the cameras, and he’s chosen to spend this time with me unconscious? I try to tell myself he didn’t mean to nod off—we’ve both had a long day, and I’m exhausted, too. We’ll have the whole flight tomorrow to hang out and talk. But talking isn’t what I want to do, and I feel totally cheated. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to end.

I’m about to get up and tiptoe back to my own room, where I’ll spend the rest of the night stewing in frustration and disappointment. But then it occurs to me that I really have no reason to leave. Who would know if I just stayed here tonight? It’s not like anyone’s going to come looking for me, and I can always sneak out early in the morning. If Will wakes up and finds me next to him, he’ll assume we both fell asleep watching the movie.

After the evening I’ve had, I deserve this.

Will sleeps with one arm flung over his head, legs spread out on top of the covers like a starfish. I carefully curl up on my side of the bed and watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. A streetlight shines through the curtains, highlighting the curve of his stubbled cheek, the straight slope of his nose, the dark hollow of his throat. A lock of his damp hair has fallen over one eye, and very tentatively, I reach out and brush it back. When he doesn’t react, I let my hand rest on the pillow next to his head, close enough to feel his breath on my fingers. But after a few minutes, that isn’t enough. My whole body aches to get closer to him.

So slowly it’s almost imperceptible, I start inching my way across the bed. There’s less than a foot of mattress between us, but the trek takes several long minutes, and by the time I’m close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, my heart is pounding like I’m about to commit a crime. I worry it might be loud enough to wake him. It’s probably loud enough to wake the whole hotel.