Page 47 of Facing Off
Five letters that leave my chest feeling off-kilter.
Sorry.
More aching, confusing emotions build inside me, and I don’t have time to figure out what they mean because there’s a knock at the door.
I drop the photo, then scramble to pick it up, before throwing it back inside the side table and slamming the drawer shut.
I’m out of breath when Hughes strolls in, too busy lifting a giant covered tray to notice my jumpiness. “Morning,” he sings. “How’re you feeling?”
“Back to normal,” I insist loudly. “No fever, no nothing.”
Hughes tilts his head at me, giving me a once-over. “You look really good.”
Heat that I thought was thoroughly contained, flares awake inside me. I tell myself it’s nothing and if my voice is extra blunt and rude when I say, “What are you hiding?” it doesn’t mean anything.
He shoots me a mischievous grin. “I’m glad you asked,because get ready for this.” He lifts the lid off and tosses it aside dramatically. “Blueberry pancakes with a touch of cinnamon, a danish waffle, there’s a bowl of strawberries and cream. I didn’t know how you like your eggs, but I thought scrambled’s a safe bet. Otherwise, ignore that and try my jam-filled crêpe. It’s the best crêpe you’ll ever taste, I promise.”
He lowers the tray with a flourish so I can see everything he’s described.
I lean closer, the strands of my hair falling forward. Is that?—
Yup, it is.
A pineapple cut into a star and another one cut into a heart shape.
Butterflies I never knew existed inside me wake up inside me. “You didn’t have to. I’m not hungry?—”
Hughes’ shoulders visibly drop. He’s a lost puppy if that puppy was a towering hockey player with an exaggerated pout and downcast blue eyes.
At the same time, a rumble fills the air.
Where is that coming fro?—
My hand races up to my belly. I squeeze. That did not just happen. I didnotmake that noise. But then it happens again.
Hughes laughs and leans forward, wafting the tray under my nose. “Pancakesss. Wafflesss. Fresh strawberriesss,” he says, annoyingly drawing out the words.
All I can do is stare at how his robe loosens every time he moves. He’s still wearing it, and that belt is so haphazardly tied!
“Stop doing that,” I warn, panicking.
“Not until you eat.”
He doesn’t stop. The robe sash wobbles.
“It’s going to open,” I say with a curse.
“What’s going to open?”
“Your robe!”
“So? Say yes and I’ll stop. Will you eat? ” he asks, jiggling his hips.
The belt unfurls…
“Ugh, okay, I’lleat!” I exclaim all at once quickly.
He puts the tray down and hands me a fork.
