Page 70 of Hail Marry
By the time we pull up at his hotel, it’s 9:30, and I’ve got a decent drive home ahead of me.
I plug my address into Google Maps, and my jaw slips open. “What?!”
He’s busy redirecting all the heater vents toward me, but at that, he stops.
“Four and a half hours!” I say incredulously, showing him my phone. Without traffic, it should be closer to one and a half.
“Come on,” he says, opening his door.
I stay where I am, and a few seconds later, he opens my door. I stare up at him. His hair isn’t tied back, and it’s full of saltwater, just like mine. His has the perfect beachy wave, while mine probably looks like I stuck my finger in a socket.
“You’re wet and sandy,” he says, putting out a hand to help me out. “Come rinse off and get warm. Maybe the traffic will die down by then.”
I hesitate, but the thought of driving home with sand grinding between my already chafing thighs is enough to make me take his hand. And maybe a little part of me doesn’t want to leave yet.
Or a biggish part.
Wet and disheveled, we make our way into the hotel, through the lobby, and to the elevator. His room is on the fifth floor, and I’m aware that my heart is beating more quickly than usual as he taps his key card on the door and opens it.
“Bathroom’s right here,” he says, nodding to the door directly to the right as we go inside.
“Thanks.” I’m eager not only to rinse off all this sand but to take a second to figure out what my heart’s doing.
A quick glance in the mirror confirms my worst fears: I look like I just came out of a Category 5 hurricane. I shut my eyes in consternation. Not like it matters what I look like. I’m not trying to impress my husband.
Right?
I turn the shower on, then try to lock the door as quietly as possible, cringing when it clicks. I step into the shower, and wet sand drops onto the tile with each garment I remove. I shake the clothes out and hang them over the shower door, then turn on the water, watching it fill with even more sand from all the times we wiped out.
The image of Luca’s ear-to-ear smile as we crashed into each other at the end of the final wave flashes through my mind, and my heart skips a few beats.
I clench my eyes shut and lather the shampoo in my hair. It’s hotel shampoo, and it’ll do a number on my curls, but the alternative isn’t great either.
It’s not until I’m out of the shower in my towel that I realize my predicament. My clothes are wet and sandy. My body is clean and not-sandy. I have nothing else with me because I wasn’t planning on venturing into the ocean. I really need to start looking before I leap.
I stand in my towel, considering my dilemma when footsteps approach.
“I’ve got dry clothes for you right here,” Luca says, his voice muffled through the closed door.
The man thinks of everything.
I unlock the door and open it a couple inches. His brown eyes meet mine through the gap, and my heart doesthe thingagain.
“Thanks.” I’m forced to open the door more so I can fit my hand and the folded clothes back through.
He nods and disappears.
He’s given me a pair of black basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt. I don’t have a clean bra or underwear, though. I glance at those two items of clothing, draped over the shower door, little collections of water gathering on the floor below them.
Tossing the clean clothes on the counter, I grab the bra and underwear, rinse them in the sink, then wring them out. They’re still very wet, so I blot them with a towel, then use the hairdryer for a couple minutes.
They’re damp, but I’ll take that over the option of goingau naturelin Luca’s clothes. We’re notthatmarried.
His shorts are way too big for me, but they’ve got a drawstring, which I tighten mercilessly. On no account must these shorts fall down. I pull on his T-shirt and inhale the divine scent of his cologne. What’s happening to me?
It’s because of that kiss outside the stadium. I got way more than I bargained for. And yet, not enough.
I shove away the nerves and intrusive thoughts and push the door open.
