Page 61 of My Hotshot

“I know.” I flipped the light off and quietly shut the door behind me.

“I’ll take those.”

I jumped. The plates clattered slightly in my hands.

Duane was standing there, his voice low and quiet. He gently took the dishes from me before I could say a word and walked away down the hallway. I didn’t follow. I didn’t want to. I was too tired. Too emotionally drained.

Just as I turned to maybe crawl into the twin bed with Lottie, Duane came back.

He didn’t say anything. Just took my hand and steered me down the hall.

We stopped three doors down, and he opened a door to a room that was similar to Lottie’s—but bigger. Queen bed. A dresser. Lamps. Personal touches.

“This is your room, isn’t it?” I asked.

He nodded and closed the door behind us. “It’s your room now, too.”

He kicked off his boots, like that was that.

I didn’t move. My back pressed against the door again. I didn’t know what to say.

I was mad at him. He hadn’t told me the truth.

“I didn’t lie to you, Lainey,” he said, reading my silence like a book.

I blinked. “Did you just read my mind?”

“No. I just know what you’re thinking. You’re mad I didn’t tell you about Boone and Gibbs.”

He undid the button on his jeans, and I averted my eyes to the ceiling.

“You did lie to me.”

“I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell you everything. Big difference.”

“A detail that might get me and my daughter killed? That’s not small.”

He pulled his shirt off and tossed it at a laundry basket—missing by a mile.

“Stop that!” I slapped my hand over my eyes. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

I heard his low laugh. “How’s that working out, babe?”

“Fine. As long as I don’tlookat you.” I peeked between my fingers, then shut them again. “Not fair.”

I heard him move, and I felt him close in.

Then arms wrapped around me.

“I’m mad at you, Duane.”

“You can be mad while I hold you.”

“What if I don’twantyou to touch me?”

“Then tell me to stop.”

But I couldn’t.

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