Page 45 of Dream Chaser
So do I.
Two doors down.
She turns and lifts her keycard. I already have mine out, both of them. I hold one out to her.
She hesitates.
“I’m not asking to interrupt your life, Iz,” I say, voice low. “Just your night.”
She takes it, not saying a word as she swipes her key, walks in, and the door clicks shut behind her slower than necessary.
And that silence? It’s not a no.
The door between us opens, and Jake peeks his head out. “Iz make it back up?”
Thankfully, my jacket is slung over my hard-on, I nod. “Yep, safe and sound.”
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“I don’t think any of us are.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” He shakes his head. “You played your best game tonight; don’t let them take that away from you.”
“Thank you.”
He winks. “Get some sleep, Skinner, and yeah, pray this storm passes, or we’re gonna be stuck in the city another damn night.”
“You, too.”
Chapter 11
The Rules
Izzy
Iclose the door softly behind me, the click of the lock sounding ten times louder than it should in the quiet. My back hits the wood with athud, and I just stand there, heart in my throat, lips still tingling, brain fried.
He kissed me. No, I kissed him. Or did we kiss each other? Does it matter?
It was a kiss that wrecked me. The kind that hits like a storm surge, pulling you under before you know you’re even concerned with drowning.
My palm is curled tight around the key he gave me, so tight the edge digs into my skin. I finally open my fingers and stare at the small plastic rectangle like it’s a glowing rune. Room 1609. His room. His key. His words: “I’m not asking to interrupt your life, Iz. Just your night.”
God.
I look around the hotel room, expecting noise or distraction—something. But it’s quiet. Empty.
The beds are perfectly made, untouched. No makeup bags, no curling irons left on the counter. Mags and Lexi must be on lockdown. And the rest? London, Harper, Riley, Lauren, Syd? With their men. Which leaves me alone. Totally, inconveniently alone. Is it a sign?
I push off the door and make my way to the bathroom, flicking on the light. My reflection is a mess of flushed cheeks and swollen lips, wild hair and wide eyes.
“You look like a lumberjack has mauled you,” I mutter to myself.
Still gripping the key, I splash cold water on my face, pat it dry, then dig around for a toothbrush. I find one. Still in plastic. Thank God for hotel kits since there is no time to be digging through my bags.
I brush my teeth, wash my hands, apply a fresh coat of lip balm. Not lipstick. No, if I’m doing this—if I’m walking down that damn hallway like a woman with something to prove and nothing to lose—I want to taste like me. Clean. Real. Familiar.
I start to towel off my hands and look down. The key is still there. Still burning. I drop it and decide just to breathe. Nothing comes from not thinking things through. I dive into things headfirst when necessary, but this is not a crisis that requires my immediate attention. This is me avoiding what could become a crisis.
