Page 48 of The Masks We Burn
I choose the latter. There’s no hope for people like us who’ve lived this long on the run. We’re both looking for something and love is the furthest thing from our minds. For the twelfth time, I remind myself we’re only sexually attracted to each other. Just a physical pull that will fade once we finally give in to it.
Returning to my room, I start dressing for brunch. As if my body knows Amora should be over any minute, a flutter starts in my gut, reminding me that while I talk a lot of shit, I’m still feeling the girl more than I want to admit.
When I bend to check the time on my phone, as if on cue, it buzzes.
Mora: I went shopping with my mom, so I’ll meet you there. Don’t be late and don’t forget the muffins I made. Remy is dropping them off if she hasn’t already.
A tightness pulls across my chest. I’d looked forward to the half-hour drive we were gonna have together. It’s been too damn long since we… I stop my train of thought. I’m turning into a fucking simp.
I sigh, about to reply, but another message pops through.
Mora: But I’m riding back with you. So make sure that big ass truck of yours is clean.
I’m smiling so fucking hard my cheeks hurt. Why am I smiling so goddamn hard?
Because you want to fuck her.
Yes. Yep. That’s why. The only reason. I say it at least three more times before I finish getting ready, but every time I do, it feels like a lie.
I take one last look in the mirror and think about what Amora said. I need to appear strong, well off, and supportive. All of which are true already, but unlike some who wear designer clothes all the way to their socks, my family has always been the kind to dress casually. We’re farmers who never miss a Sunday football game. So dressing up only happens on Easter Sunday and at weddings or funerals.
I went shopping a couple of days ago and had to FaceTime Blaze for help. After too damn long, we went with a pair of dark trousers, a cream turtleneck sweater, and black topcoat. I look pretty goddamn spiffy if you ask me, but for good measure, I spray a little Bleu de Chanel.
Finally ready, I grab the muffin box off the bar and leave, nothing but Spotify to keep me company.
By the time I arrive, the sun is hidden behind a dark cloud, and I wonder if it’s an omen or a coincidence.
The hotel beneath the rooftop restaurant is massive. It’s thirty-five floors of chrome, glass, and expensive perfume. An equally impressive fountain sits in the center of the foyer, koi fish swirling around each other in crystal clear water.
Maybe it’s the farm boy in me, but I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to look like a swimming pool. You know, algae, and snails, and ecosystem necessity and all that. I lean over the edge, staring into the bottom at the mosaic tile. They look so miserable, crowding around each other as they swim in circles.
“Did you know koi fish live up to like forty years?” Amora’s voice makes me smile as I straighten up and turn to face her.
Holy shit.
Amora stands next to the fountain, her long pink locks curling loosely around her face and over a long-sleeve black sweater. It’s hanging slack on one shoulder, exposing her smooth skin, while a tight knee-length blush skirt hugs her curves. I have to bite into my lip to ease the arousal hardening my length.
“Are you coming or are you just going to stand there and gawk at me all morning?” She lifts a faint brow and pops a hand on her hip.
I erase the distance between us in a few strides and place my hands on said hips, drawing her closer. Her eyes widen for a moment, a doe-in-headlights expression taking over, before I press my lips to hers.
When I release her, she takes a staggered step back, and I slip my hand to her lower back, steadying her. “If I’m honest, sugar, I’d like to do both.”
Amora smirks, and bats me on the chest, but just as I feel a smile curve my lips, she tenses. In a second, her armor is back in place, and my heart drops an inch. I should stop. It’s not my place to strip her bare if I don’t plan to be here to protect her.
She steps out of my reach and begins her stride to the elevator. When we enter, she tells the elevator operator what floor before turning to me. “You remember what I said?”
All business, I see.
I nod, my face content even though a fire burns under my skin. This is getting so fucking complicated and it’s obvious it’s more one-sided than I thought. I take a look at the cake box in my hand and focus on it as we ride up the floors in silence.
When it comes to a stop, Amora slips her arm into mine, stepping out as soon as the doors slide open. Again, I ignore the pang of disappointment flicking the back of my neck. It’s almost like an “I told you so” from my promiscuous side, laughing at how quickly I let a woman get under my skin.
We walk through the rows of scattered tables, all the guests dining in gloomy weather unafraid of the possible storm looming overhead. I wonder if they think the rain wouldn’t have the audacity to fall on them.
I smirk to myself as Amora stops at a table, holding a hand out to a couple who stands. “William. This is my mother and father, and this is William, my fiancé.”
Don’t.
