When I come back to the room he’s dressed in his new clothes—an Oxford and a pair of gray jeans that he somehow manages to make look expensive. I try not to gawk.
The clothes don’t make the man,I think.The man makes the clothes.
He also smells delicious, like soap and shampoo and Old Spice. I thought I liked him dirty, but apparently I like him clean, too, and despite my best efforts, my body reacts to the scent, that tugging, twisting sensation deep in my lower belly.
I try to focus on something else, but it’s basically just that or my screaming feet.
“Are you limping?” he asks. “Youare.”
“I’m fine.” I try not to limp as I head for the shower.
It’s a great showerhead, because Rhys chose the poshest possible airport-adjacent hotel and it’s a nice one. I stand under the water for a long time, until I have to stop because my feet are straight-up killing me on the hard tile floor. I change into a decently cute skirt and a striped T-shirt and step out into the room.
No Rhys.
For a brief, ridiculous moment, I’m afraid. Afraid he got tired of chasing Paul, afraid he got tired ofme, afraid he decided to go back to Rush Creek to clean up my mess or back to New York to be rid of me entirely. Then I hear my therapist’s voice in my head:Part of your brain will probably always be afraid people will leave, but you don’t have to let it rule the way you live and make decisions.
I take a deep breath and use my big, smart forebrain to rationally assess: Fifty bucks says he went to get food.
Right then, thedoor beeps andchunksand Rhys appears, holding a plastic bag in one hand and a big paper bag in the other.
“I switched the laundry,” he says.
I’d forgotten about that. “Thank you.”
“Left you a note,” he says, gesturing, and I see it then, on the table:Getting food, switching laundry. —R.
It’s short and impersonal, and my face gets warm anyway, because it’s a small thing that matters, which is Rhys’s specialty.
I catch the scent of something absolutely delicious. “Is thatIndianfood?”
“Yup. Hope that’s okay. I know you were supposed to have samosas as one of your appetizers at the wedding, and I remember you being super excited about them. Wasn’t sure what else you’d like, so I got a bunch of stuff we can split and try.”
I wish he would stop being so nice. It’s going to kill me.
“What’s in the plastic bag?”
He reaches in and pulls out a bottle of Advil and?—
“Are thosefrogslippers?”
“Not just any frog slippers,” he says. The corner of his mouth turns up, a grin he can’t quite fight. “Heatable frog slippers.”
I think of him again in that conference room, dark-eyed, stern, scornful, icy.
And then I look at him with the frog slippers in his hands and that almost-grin, and I know it’s basically hopeless. It’s only a matter of time until I give in and do something I’ll regret, probably devouring his mouth like an ice-cream cone on a summer’s day.
He tugs the slippers apart, breaking the plastic tag, which he tosses into the hotel trash. Then he opens the microwave and slides the slippers in, hitting buttons until the motor hums.
This guy, who doesn’t believe in happily-ever-afters, brought meheatable frog slippers.
“Thank you.”
It’s ridiculously inadequate to the moment, so I try again. “That’s probably—no, that’s definitely—the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“Seriously?” He looks horrified, and yeah, when I think about it, that’s a sign I’ve been hanging out with the wrong people. The wrong men, at least.
But apparently my judgment regarding “right” and “wrong” men is pretty suspect.
