Page 46 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
can you come to my hotel room?
I stare down at the words, and my heart betrays me by skipping a stupid beat.
Then more messages pop up, sent in quick succession, like he’s also just realized how his invitation sounds.
for the photos
we still need to choose the photos from today
Either he’s thinking about the competition or it’s a cover for what he’s actually thinking about, an excuse to invite me over. I’m hoping it’s the latter. I glance at the clock—there are only ten minutes left until curfew, which is when Wang Laoshi transforms from a mildly disgruntled teacher into a deeply disgruntled security guard.
This could be the moment I’ve been working toward the entire trip. If all goes well tonight—if I’m charming enough, pretty enough, smooth enough—I might finally be able to secure my grip on Cyrus’s heart and crush it, just like I planned.
Because I definitely shouldn’t be softening toward him.
Because I definitely, absolutely still want to get my revenge.
“Do you need to go somewhere?” Daisy asks.
“Cyrus’s room.” I let the implication fill the air. “But, like, I don’t know how to get there without getting caught—I mean, it’s kind of late …”
“I’ll cover for you,” Daisy says quickly. “If Wang Laoshi asks, I’ll just lie and say you’re asleep.”
I pause in surprise. “Are you sure? Because—please don’t take this the wrong way—if you don’t feel comfortable lying …”
“Oh, I’m a great liar when I want to be,” Daisy assures me. “I used to lie all the time to get out of class presentations.”
I’m still making up my mind when one more message springs onto the screen.
it’ll be just us btw. Oliver was called to attend his father’s event across the city. he won’t be back until the morning.
“Okay, I’m going,” I decide. The fizzing feeling in my blood has raced upward, like soda when you shake it too hard inside the can. I smear some tinted lip balm—the one that tastes like strawberries—over my mouth, then glance down at my pale silk nightgown. It is, by most standards, a bit too flimsy to be worn out anywhere, which makes it perfect for what I’m about to do next.
“Thank you so much—I owe you,” I tell Daisy on my way out, all my photos tucked into the purse in my hand.
“Hey, um, aren’t you going to wear clothes?” she calls after me.
“I’m wearing them,” I call back, adjusting the straps of my nightgown to loosen them further. “Theseareclothes.” Kind of.
Cyrus’s room is on the other side of the floor. By the time I get there, my nerves have started to fray and my self-consciousness has kicked in, and despite everything I’ve promised myself, it’s not revenge that I’m thinking about. It’s just—him. The prospect of seeing him. Of being in the same room as him. I draw my damp hair down to cover my chest and ring the doorbell, then wait for him to answer.
When he does, his reaction is subdued, but thereisa reaction. A flash of something across his face, a breath drawn too fast. He seems to take me in all within a second, then he pulls the door wider to let me inside, reaching down to fetch a pair of slippers for me.
“Wow, nice place,” I joke as I walk into an exact replica of my room in our new hotel, right down to the heavy yellow curtains and patterned carpet and two single beds.
“Thanks, I spent ages decorating,” he deadpans. “Feel free to sit.”
I lower myself onto the couch by the window and lean back against the crimson cushions.
His eyes widen. “Wait,” he says, his voice sharp, panicked. “Not there—”
Something hard digs into my spine. I frown, turning around, and spot the corner of a small box sticking out from between the cushions, evidently stuffed there in a last-minute attempt to hide it.
“Leah,” Cyrus is saying, close to pleading. “Leah, you can just leave that—”
I ignore him and pull the pastel-pink box all the way out, and for two seconds I don’t register what I’m holding in my hands. Then I do, and all at once, the color spreading fiercely through Cyrus’s face makes perfect sense. Silent laughter springs up inside me at the mental image of him scrambling to bury the box before I arrived, but I push it back. Raise my brows. Hold up the condoms. “What’s this?” I ask, feigning ignorance, just so I can have the pleasure of watching him struggle to explain himself.
And I’m instantly rewarded with his reaction. His expression seems to race through every emotion known to mankind in the space of an inhale. He steps forward, his hands out, like he has half a mind to just snatch the box from me and burn it. “That is—” He clears his throat. I’ve never seen him so visibly distressed before. “That is … an interesting question. I promise, it’s not what it—”
