Page 22 of Catch Me If You Can

"There’s no way," I snap, grabbing his arm. God, I hate him. Hate his smugness. His timing. His everything. Of course he’d pick this weekend, this one, to reappear and blow up my plans.

And now this—dragging me to some absurdly overpriced hotel just to remind me I can't afford it on my own. Yet another thing Caleb can do better.

“Relax,” he says, cool as ever. “I’m just offering you a solution.”

“Oh, and you just love that, don’t you? My own personal hero. Always saving the day.” I roll my eyes and pull out my phone, searching for literallyanywhereelse to sleep. But to my luck, everything’s either sold out or priced up the ass.

He was right. I’m screwed.

I look up to see him handing me another room key card. “What is that?”

“What do you think it is?”

I stare at it. “Seriously?”

“Shut up and come on,” he says, walking backward toward the elevator. “We’ll talk over a drink.”

I want to protest. Really, I do. But I’m notstupid. He’s offering me a free bed. And the reality is, I’m stranded. And yes, Ihatehim—but I’m also not sleeping on the street.

“Fine,” I huff, trailing behind.

This weekend is already a disaster.

***

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

My jaw drops as we step inside. The room looks like it belongs in a luxury magazine. The warm chestnut cabinets. Marble countertops. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing off downtown Toronto in all its glittering glory.

Even the inner artist in me is impressed.

I spot the giant king-sized bed on the one side of the room and snort. “One bed?… I’m assuming I get the couch?”

Caleb arches a brow. “Did you want to climb up in the bed with me like old times?”

My eyes narrow. Here he goes forcing old memories at me, reminding me instantly how big of an ass he is to ruin it all. “Fuck you,” I reply.

Honestly, it’s generous of him to let me stay at all. But still… this weird tension is hanging in the air and comments like that aren’t making it any better.

I drop onto the couch. “I’d rather not think about us actually being friends.”

“Friendsis an understatement but I’ll let that slide. First—drinks. Then we trauma-bond.” He heads toward the bedroom side of the suite—open concept, so I really have no choice but to look as he peels off his shirt.

He’s always doing that. Shirtless at any given opportunity. Even back in high school. Justhadto show off how attractive he was. It’s like he thinks that’s his only good trait or something. I shift in my seat, trying not to stare…but my eyes betray me, tracing every muscle and tattoo scattered across his chest and ribcage.

Goddamn. Looks like he hasn’t lost one ounce of muscle since high school.

A glass appears in front of my face snapping me out of my head. “Here.”

Shit.Was I staring?

“Oh. Thanks,” I say, clearing my throat. “What is it?” I sniff the drink but there’s barely any smell.

“Vodka and Sprite. Best the minibar could do.” He shrugs and sinks onto the couch beside me.

This is the most we’ve talked inyears. Strange how normal it feels being around him… until I remember how it all ended.

I can’t believe I’m actually here.With him.

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