Page 136 of Break Point
“Thank you. They’re gorgeous.” I say, my voice slightly shaking with nerves. “What’s this?” I lift the white box, reading the round sticker on the bottom right corner:El Puro Cielo.
The way he keeps looking at me makes me weak in the knees.
“Open it,” he says. “I’ve been told they’re the best in town.”
“Let me guess. Lydia?” I chuckle, and he laughs.
“Yes, Lydia.”
I tug on the silky ribbon and crack open the lid to find three extra-large chocolate chip cookies, the kind I’ve been craving all week.
But what does this all mean? Henry has never sent me flowers before. This is my first win since he became my coach, so that must be it. This is his way of celebrating and showing me how proud he is. He says so in the card.
But these are a million freakingredroses.
I slam the brakes.
It’s gotten me nowhere thinking like this in the past. He’s just being nice and supportive.
“Thanks, Coach,” I murmur, giving him a soft punch on the arm.
He smiles. But there’s something tight in it. Something that makes my chest seize for reasons I refuse to examine too closely.
“Now go pack my bags while I get ready for bed,” I order playfully.
We made a bet last night that if I won, he’d do the packing for me. If I lost, I had to grant him one favor of his choosing. Anytime. No questionsasked. And now I’ll be flying blind, not knowing what kind of favor he would have wanted to cash in.
I grab a fresh set of pajamas and flee to the bathroom. It’s the only thing I can do to avoid overthinking Henry’s gesture.
Hide.
I close the door, lean back against it, and shut my eyes. As I take a deep, calming breath that does nothing to stabilize me, a few thoughts come pouring to the front of my mind.
Your dad would kill me if he found out.
We can’t. Not now. Not like this.
I made Joe a promise, Bells.
We’re like brother and sister.
I’m delusional.
Sighing, I peel off my clothes and slip into my soft pajama shorts and an oversized, worn-out T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. I try to shake off the whirlpool of emotions Henry’s stirred up, clinging to the simple, mechanical steps of getting ready for bed.
Brushing my teeth.
Washing my face.
Pretending I’m fine.
My muscles hum with soreness and pride, a slow, grounding reminder of everything I accomplished today. Of the things I should focus on instead.
I step out of the bathroom barefoot, fully expecting Henry to be zipping up suitcases, checking his phone, or counting down the minutes until we have to be packed and ready to leave.
Instead, I catch him sitting on the edge of the bed, his palms pressed on the mattress beside him like he’s ready for a GQ photoshoot.
Frozen.
