Page 130 of Till The Sun Dies (Checkmate 2)

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Angelo

Dinner Date

As soon as the bathroom door closes and her scent no longer clouds my judgment, I snap back to the real world and realize I’ve turned into the guy I said I wouldn’t.

I wouldn’t be the next dude on her doorstep. I wouldn’t be talking her into anything that even remotely resembles a hook-up or a relationship, and yet, here I am, sharing a beautiful hotel room with her for the next five nights.

How am I supposed to keep my sanity?

How can I watch her smile the way she does and not drop to my knees and beg for a chance?

How can I stand here and watch the other couple throw sex pheromones around like confetti, and not imagine that could be me and Laine?

Fuck the world.

Fuck Graham.

Fuck Kane and Jess for continuously tossing me and Laine together like it doesn’t hurt us. It hurts me, because I can never have what I so desperately need. And it hurts Laine, because men are despicable animals that she never wants to know in a romantic setting again.

“Angelo?” The shower stops, and in the single second it takes for me to process the fact she’s in the bathroom we’re sharing, naked and dripping wet, the bathroom door cracks open just half an inch and steam races out to mark the ceiling. “Ang?”

I turn on the piano bench and meet her eyes across the expansive room. “Hm?”

“I forgot my stuff. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.”Kill me now.I stand and move to the bags the kid from earlier brought up. I flip open the top flap and study her wild array of shoes, power cords, and denim.

Why do girls insist on bringing so many different things?

“What do you need?”

“There’s a little black bag in there, with gold spots. You see it?”

I push things aside with the tip of my finger and pray I don’t find anything that might embarrass her. “I see it.”

“That’s my toiletries bag. I need that for makeup.”

“You’re doing your makeup?” I straighten up and take the bag to the barely cracked door.

“Mmhm.” Wet hair is plastered back against her scalp, and her long lashes, dark despite her blonde hair, clump together with water. A drop sits on the tip of her small nose, but it’s not nearly as tempting as the drop on her plump bottom lip. “Kane said we’re doing fancy, so I’m doing myself up. I don’t think I’ve worn makeup since before Christmas.” She smiles. “It’ll be nice to get dressed up again.”

Why, when you’re already so beautiful?

“Okay. Suppose I better get my shirt out and see if it’s all wrinkled, then. I can’t escort you in a wrinkled shirt.”

She snickers and pokes her hand through the door. “Give it to me. I’ll hang it up in here, the steam will straighten it out.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Grab a hanger out of the closet, and while you’re there, can you pass my garment bag? I’ll wear that dress tonight.”

I pass her the toiletries bag and move back toward our luggage, rummaging through to find the only button up shirt I brought along, before detouring to the closet to grab her stuff. The navy-blue garment bag is kind of heavy, heavier than I expect of a dress, but since there’s only one, I shrug and move back to the bathroom door. “Shirt. Hanger. Dress.” I pass each through the small gap and tryreallyhard not to look down at the towel pulled around her torso.

“Thanks. What time is it?”

“Ah…” I lean back to catch a glimpse of the bedside alarm clock. “Twenty to seven.”

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