Unwrapped
Page 7
Daniel clears his throat. There’s an uncomfortable pause. “I guess it’s fine with me. I mean, if it’s the last room. It’s not like we’d be sharing a bed,” he adds quickly, as if the thought couldn’t be more horrifying.
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.”
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.”
