Page 46 of The Only Thing That's Real

What the hell do I do now?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ryan

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not sure if I imagined the knock on my door, I keep still, not ready to open my eyes yet.

We got to the hotel around 8am. I couldn’t fall asleep on the bus. My mind was racing about everything that happened with Knox. Exhausted, I crashed in my clothes on top of the duvet the moment my head hit the pillow.

Trevor caught up to me as I was checking in and begged me not to leave. He said Knox had filled him in on what happened and he assured me there was no reason to leave. He sounded so confident.

What I wouldn’t give for even an ounce of his confidence in the situation.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Crap!

“Coming!”

Shooting out of bed, I don’t bother looking in a mirror. I’m decent if all that’s required is being fully clothed. I know without checking that my hair will look like a tangle of vipers, so I pull the band from my wrist and wrangle it into a bun on top of my head. I don’t wear much make-up, but what I was wearing I washed off on the bus last night, so whoever is on the other side of this door is about to get a face full of reality.

It’s probably Trevor, being the decent guy he is, coming to tell me in person he was wrong and I do need to leave.

Knock—

“I’m here. Sorry. I’m here,” I yell, ripping the door open.

It isn’t Trevor.

It’s the most devastatingly beautiful man I’ve ever seen in the flesh.

Nearly choking on a gasp, I say nothing. Neither does he. Instead, his eyes flit over my face, taking in every inch. First, he examines my eyes, his gaze moving from one to the other. Eventually, his focus glides down my nose to my lips. He licks his own bottom lip before his eyes travel to my cheeks and then up to the mess on my head. On instinct, my hands travel to my hair, giving my bun a little tug.

“Don’t. I like it.”

He what?

There’s no way.

Is he being an asshole?

“I know you’re mad at me, but you don’t have to be cruel.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Go to coffee with me?”

Thrown off, I ask, “Rightnow?”

“If it’s a good time?”

“Uh, sure. Do you mind if I brush my teeth and maybe change out of yesterday’s clothes?”

“Of course, no problem.” He takes two steps backward until his back meets the wall across from my door, never taking his eyes off me. As if last night never happened, he shoves his hands in the front pocket of his jeans, crossing his ankles. “I’ll wait out here. Take your time.”

Dumbfounded, I close the door.

Did someone drug me last night? Did I imagine the incident on the bus or am I imagining him waiting in the hallway?

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