Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(43)
Author: Monica Murphy

Even her voice sounds different. I hate this. I should apologize. But how?

Hey, sorry I told my sister we were just friends but I wanted to get her off my back after she gave me an endless amount of shit. I didn’t mean it.

But I might have meant it. I mean … if she’s confused and giving me mixed signals, maybe I’m just as bad. I want her. I don’t. I want more than just sex. I’d rather run.

I’m contradicting myself in my own brain. I’m a mess.

“I’m gonna go inside and get a room,” I tell her. “You want to come with me?”

She slowly shakes her head, keeping her gaze locked on the passenger-side window, staring at the front of the hotel. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit out here and wait for you.”

I exit the car and head toward the hotel’s entrance, swearing I can feel her gaze on me as I walk. If she’s watching me, I know we still have a chance. This is just a blip in the road or whatever.

But if she’s not looking at me, then forget it. I can almost guarantee it won’t work out.

Fuck. I’m afraid to turn around and look, but finally, after taking a deep breath and counting to five, I slowly glance over my shoulder, my gaze falling on the passenger-side door’s window.

Chelsea’s watching me, her fingers resting on the glass, her expression full of sadness. I smile at her, give her a little wave, and she waves back.

Glad to know there’s some hope between us after all.

Chelsea

The hotel room is nice and clean, but there’s one king-sized bed. It was the only type of room available, Owen had said apologetically when he’d come back to the car so he could park it. I’d sat there, quietly stewing, wondering if he was lying to me. I was going to confront him about it once we got to the hotel room but changed my mind when we stood in front of the door, where I watched Owen slide the card into the lock and open it.

I don’t need to start any fights. He already knows how I feel and I should be mad that he hasn’t apologized, but what do I expect? Owen begging for my forgiveness?

He’s been very quiet, almost somber, I’m sure in reaction to my mood. It’s hard for me to pretend everything’s okay when deep inside, I’m sad. Disappointed. And I know Fable hadn’t meant to make me sad or ruin the mood. Truly, I should be ecstatic by what she said because clearly, Owen and I don’t give off a just-friends vibe.

I just hate that he said it in the first place.

He’d glanced around the hotel room, asking if I thought everything looked okay, and when I said yes, he said he was going to go pick up a few things for us, toothbrushes and toothpaste and whatever else we might need. He asked if I wanted to go with him, but I told him I was going to hop in the shower instead. His eyes had gone all dark in that sexy way of his and he hardened his jaw, gave me a quick “all right, I’ll be back,” and then he took off, closing the door with a firm slam behind him.

I go into the bathroom and flick on the lights, impressed with what I find. The room is huge, the fixtures new, and everything’s so clean. I wish I had something different to change into after I take a shower, but I do find a hotel robe hanging on the back of the door and decide that will have to do. And when I push back the shower curtain and turn on the faucet, I notice the water pressure is amazing.

The shower at my apartment is lackluster at best, so I’m going to soak under this for as long as I can.

A sigh of relief escapes me when I step beneath the spray and I tilt my head back, letting the water wash over my hair and face, consciously trying to relax my forehead since it’s still super tense. I wasn’t lying about the headache. It came on just before we left the stadium, and I can only assume it formed because of a combination of things.

Travel can set me off. That time of the month does, too, though I’m not due for my period for a few more days at least. The tension between Owen and me has added to it, too, of course.

I wish I had asked him to pick up some ibuprofen for me. I should text him, but by the time I get out of the shower, he could be on his way back to the room …

I decide not to bother.

The water seems to help ease the tension keeping me rigid. My bones and muscles melt under the heat and pressure of the water, and the soothing scent of the shampoo and body wash that I found on the bathroom counter relaxes me. Steam fills the bathroom, making everything feel hazy, almost dreamlike, and when I finally shut the water off, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

My mind is deliciously blank and my eyelids are heavy, my head drowsy. I towel myself off, my skin pink from the hot water, and I don’t bother putting back on my panties or bra, deciding to save them for tomorrow. The thought of wearing them two days in a row is kind of gross, but what can I do? I don’t have a choice.

I finger-comb my hair as best I can, wiping the steam from the mirror so I can see my reflection. My cheeks are rosy, my eyes sleepy, my lids heavy. The look is almost … sexy, and I never think of myself that way. If Owen sees me looking like this, I can almost imagine him trying to jump me. Even if we are in the just-friends zone, he’d at least notice me because I’m naked, right?

I mean, what nineteen-year-old guy can resist a naked girl with a decent body? I’m no sexy bombshell  p**n  star, but I’m not bad. I don’t have huge boobs or anything, but I’m sufficiently curvy, and Kari’s always ragging on me to show it off a bit. Wear a top that reveals a little cle**age or a short skirt, but that’s so not my style. I’d never feel comfortable wearing something like that.

Taking a step back, I assess my figure, something I definitely don’t do on a regular basis. I never have time to stand around and check myself out in the mirror and besides, I never really thought of myself as a sexual being, until I met Owen. Was never really aware of myself, or the power of my body.

But now I look at my br**sts and wonder if he likes them. He’s never tried to touch them, not really. He’ll skim his hands along my sides, make me crazy with wanting him to boldly touch me, but he hasn’t done it yet. I cup one breast, feel its weight in my palm, and my nipple prickles with awareness, hardening just like that. I flick my thumb across it, gasping a little when the sensation seems to travel through my body and lands between my legs, a gentle throb that makes me momentarily breathless.

Just like I feel when Owen kisses me. Holding me close, his mouth fused with mine, his tongue doing all of these wickedly delicious things …

I drop my hand away from my breast and cover my cheeks with my hands, exhaling loudly. This back and forth, push and pull I’m feeling for Owen is slowly starting to drive me crazy. I need to not get so hung up on statements and words, especially when I don’t know what was really said. It’s dumb. And I pride myself on being logical and thorough, exploring all the factors, all the benefits and all the negatives.