Page 87 of To Love or to Lose
I narrow my eyes at him, giving him the idea that I know exactly what he’s looking at.He clears his throat as I watch him unfold the metal contraption.
“That looks comfy.” I smirk sarcastically as I take a seat on the bed.
“You’re lucky.” He points a finger at me, not saying anything more.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, crossing my legs under me, resting my elbows on my knees.
“You’re lucky I would never let you sleep on a measly old cot.” I can tell that’s not what he’s thinking, but the sentiment is still there.
I smile, laying back against the fresh hotel sheets. “Good.”
He puts the extra sheets on the cot, and I throw a pillow from the side of the bed I’m not sleeping on at him. Once he hits the edge of the cot, he reaches over the back of his head and starts pulling his shirt up and off.
I only see a sliver of his torso before I launch myself across the bed to turn the lamp off.
I lean back against the pillow again, letting out a small sigh of relief before Jameson’s laugh breaks through the solitude of the darkness.
“Hope you’re not sweating at the sight of me, Genova,” he teases.
“Shut up.” I groan, pressing my palms to my eyes.
He chuckles again, and even in the darkness I know he’s turned to look at me. “Good night, Genevieve.”
“Good night.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
140 days until graduation
It’s been a long day, full of college tours and a dinner with many college counselors.
It’s dark outside, and we have gotten back to the hotel when Jameson and I have our first interaction of the day.
He steps on the elevator quietly, barely sparing me a glance as I head in the same direction. I move to step in behind him, but he quickly presses the button to our floor before I make it in. The doors start to close.
“Jameson,” I say in a threatening tone. He must know I’m tired from that walk; I want to get back to the room just as badly as he does.
Why can't he subside for once and let me on the damn elevator?
A grin crosses his face, and his hand reaches out to point toward the sign that reads ‘STAIRS.’ Then, he says, “Race me.”
The elevator door shuts.
“Fucking Christ.”
I think about waiting for another elevator. Then, I think about his challenge, and I can’t deny the way my heart races at the possibility of beating Jameson.
I look toward the stairs again, and this time I run toward them.
I feel like I’m floating up the stairs.
Growing up in a rather large house with three flights of steep stairs means I have grown confident in my ability to get up a set of stairs quickly. I get to one of the last flights on my way to the seventh floor. I figure if I can make it up faster than the elevator, I will have something to rub in Jameson’s face when he gets there.
I hurry my pace, skipping some steps. I can make it to the top faster if I give it one last push, one last boost, one last—
My foot misses the step. My hands barely have enough time to reach out and catch myself.
The concrete steps harshly scrape the skin of my hands and knees as I skid down them. I wince, clenching my teeth and breathing through the gaps.
