Page 100 of The Fine Line
So I begin explaining, talking as fast as I can.
But it turns out there’s no rush.
Because Rhett doesn’t come back out of his room for the rest of the night.
twenty-four
CAROLINE
Rhett reappears at my side, startling me.
“The weather’s nice today, isn’t it?” he says cheerfully.
“Mhmm.” I hum, already halfway through my social battery—and it’s not even eight.
Ever since he shut himself in his room the other night, Rhett hasn’t stopped talking. It’s like a mashup of Michael Scott fromThe Officeand the dog fromUp—every random thought, every stray observation, every unfiltered musing spills out of him.
And today is no different. From the second he emerged from his room, through the forty-five minutes before we left the apartment, the twenty-minute drive to the airport, and now—he hasn’t let up.
“Too bad we’re leaving,” he muses as we step out of his Range Rover. “When is it ever under seventy-five in October in Texas?”
“No idea,” I answer flatly, reaching for the back hatch.
He beats me to it, popping the tailgate and grabbing my roller bag. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching for my smaller bag, but he grabs that too, slinging it over his shoulder.
“I got it.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
“Okay…thank you.”
“Isn’t it wild how airlines charge extra if your bag’s overweight? Like, suddenly the plane’s fine if you pay fifty extra bucks?”
“He keeps talking as we walk across the tarmac. I nod occasionally, only snapping back to attention when he gently grabs my wrist.
“Hey.” He leans in, voice low. “I think we should sit together.”
“Okay…” I nod. “But why’d you say it like that?”
“Oh,” I blink. “Okay. We can do that, I guess. But…why do you say it like that?”
He glances behind me. “Some of the guys don’t seem convinced… about us.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I deadpan.
The guys know our history—his relentless flirting, me always shutting him down, him moving on, then circling back. It’s no wonder they’re skeptical of our sudden Vegas wedding.
“I told them the story we’re going with,” Rhett says. “That a couple weeks before Vegas, you finally admitted how badly you’ve wanted me—couldn’t stand to see me with anyone else?—”
“Okay, no,” I cut in. “That’s not what we agreed on.”
He shrugs. “Semantics.”
“And they bought that?”
