Without another word she turns away from me, but doesn’t move, and I realize her eyes are scanning the buildings on the beach.

“There,” she says, pointing to one of the huge hotels facing the water. “I’m staying there tonight. I’d say I’ve earned a little splurge.”

I follow her, because no way am I letting her out of my sight. Not when she’s so volatile.

I can’t afford the hotel, but I’ve been paying for my missteps with this girl for six years now.

Might as well put some of that guilt on my credit card.

Chapter 17

Lucy

Reece lets me wallow for a full twenty-four hours in Oscar’s betrayal, which, let’s face it, is longer than the asshole deserves.

Still, once the shock of seeing my and Reece’s history play out in front of my eyes wears off, I’m hit by the realization that Oscar’s betrayal hurt in its own right.

I mean, did I think I was going to marry the guy? Probably not. But I cared about him enough to find out if he was the one. Cared enough to make our relationship work, even with distance and the fact that our schedules had no overlap.

So yeah, I took a full day to mourn, and I’d picked a good place to do it. When I’d scanned the beach for hotels, I’d purposely picked one that looked like it had once been grand, but was now a little tired. One that would make my bank account cry only a little.

And a full day wrapped in a generic hotel robe with a partial ocean view, my journal, room service and really bad TV is exactly what the doctor ordered, because around four in the afternoon the day after Oscar’s betrayal, I’m starting to feel like maybe I can survive this.

Reece apparently agrees, because about three minutes after I step out of the shower, he pounds on my door.

I know it’s him by the angry impatience, but I look through the peephole anyway, mostly to annoy him.

Yep. He looks pissed. My mood lifts.

“What?” I ask.

“Let me in.”

I roll my eyes. “I just got out of the shower.”

His head snaps up at that, and I smirk.

“Well this is progress,” he says in a bland tone. “I’d half expected to find you ass down on the bed, melted cheese in your hair.”

My smirk turns into a real smile at that. Last night, just as I’d been trying to muster the energy to order food, room service had arrived with a bottle of California chardonnay and a chicken quesadilla that I hadn’t ordered.

If the chard hadn’t been a dead giveaway, the chicken quesadilla would have been. I pretty much lived on them all throughout high school. I don’t eat them as much now, since I pretend to be an adult and eat the occasional piece of fish or vegetable, but it’s still my ultimate comfort food.

Something Reece had apparently remembered.

“Thanks for that,” I say quietly.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t thank a man through the door, Hawkins. Open the hell up.”

I glance down at my towel, considering throwing some clothes on first, but then I shrug. It’s just Reece.

My inner skank rolls her eyes. There’s never been anything just Reece about what’s between us.

A fact I’m reminded of when I open the door and his gaze rakes over me.

At first, his look’s impulsive—instinctive guy checking out an almost naked girl from head to toe.

But when his gaze drags back up my body, it’s slower. More deliberate.

Not guy checking out girl so much as Reece checking out Lucy, and I feel it. I feel it everywhere, and I’m annoyed by the memory of how Reece used to make every part of me feel like an erogenous zone, not just the obvious ones.

Even my ankles are burning. Damn the man.

I try to strike back, give him the same slow perusal, but it’s not really the same when he’s fully dressed in…

My nose wrinkles in confusion. “You’re dressed up.”

Reece shoves past me and I jump back, because I don’t think either one of us can handle touching when there’s nothing but terry cloth covering my interesting bits.

“I’m wearing jeans,” he says dismissively.

True. But they’re nice jeans. Dark denim, not the faded whatever jeans he’s been wearing the past few days. And he’s wearing brown dress shoes instead of boots, a white button down instead of a T-shirt.

“You’re going out.”

His eyebrows lift, as he sets his bag next to the desk. “You’re the one who pointed out that we’re in Miami. And that I have a baker’s dozen women to sleep with.”

I roll my eyes to ward off the flash of jealousy. “How many did you check off last night?”

“You mean while you were stuffing your face with Real Housewives and sour cream, sobbing into your diary? Wouldn’t you like to know. Now get dressed. Do something with your face.”

I blink. “What’s wrong with my face?”

If I was hoping for a compliment I’m disappointed, because he ignores the question and ambles toward the window with a whistle. “Nice view.”

“Yours isn’t the same?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nope. I didn’t have the whole sad girl in a sexy outfit thing going on when I checked in, so no free upgrade. My room was on the poor person side, looking out at a dumpster.”

“Was?” I ask in confusion at the past tense. The plan has always been to stay two nights in Miami, and seeing as it’s already four P.M. and he wants to go out, there’s no way we’re driving anywhere else tonight.