“Paige, wait.” He makes his way toward me. He puts a hand on my pelvis and feels around, like he wants to make sure nothing’s broken. “Did they check this out?”
“Yes. It’s fine.” I grip his hand, stopping the tactile inquisition. “If you really want to help, escort me up the stairs.”
And he does. Once we reach the end of the hall where our side-by-side suites are located, we stop. “You need any help changing?” he asks.
“No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
I walk into my suite and close the door, grateful for the privacy. After kicking off my sandals and dumping my clothes—including Julian’s driver’s jacket—in a hamper, I change into loose gray cotton pants and an off-white tank top with pink smiley faces. I need a bit of happy in my life, and the tank top’s never failed to cheer me up…until now.
In the mirror, a haggard blonde with dark circles and brackets around her mouth stares back.
“Come on, Paige. You have on your happy tank. Smile.”
I slap my cheeks lightly to put some color into them and pull my lips back. Now I look like a zombie that just heard a really good joke.
So far Ryder’s been solicitous. It’s like the medical emergency totally changed his attitude. Until I started bleeding, he was upset about the sex tape and my seeing Anthony.
But I’m also painfully aware that it’s all just temporary. That tape isn’t going away. It’s going to be in our faces until the wedding three weeks from now. Actually probably longer, unless somebody else does something crazy to get the media’s attention.
Putting on a neutral expression, I bunch my limp hair into a simple ponytail, then go out into the hall. Ryder straightens away from the wall at the sight of me.
“Dinner’s being served in my suite,” he says.
It is? “The dining room’s okay.”
“Yeah, but it’s just the two of us. And I thought it might be easier if you didn’t have to go up and down the stairs.” His gaze drops to my pelvis for a moment. “You take anything for that?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
We go into his room. It’s larger and more opulent than any hotel suite, with a bedroom and a separate seating area, plus a walk-in closet that’s bigger than most studio apartments. I see a table and chairs that weren’t there before; housekeeping must’ve set them up.
Ryder pulls out a chair for me and I sit, murmuring my thanks. Our dinner is a simple affair with tossed garden salad, freshly baked rolls and my favorite chicken Parmesan. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my fork and brace myself for the next few hours.
* * *
Ryder
I sit on Paige’s right. We eat in silence. It’s partly because I’m hungry, but also because I want to act like the issues between us—the ones that made us raise our voices at each other—don’t exist. Easy to do if I keep my focus on how close she came to losing her baby. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of that blood on her skirt.
The food is fantastic, as usual. My chef spares no expense getting the best ingredients, and today’s no exception. I try to pretend that this is like any of the dinners Paige and I have had before. When we traveled for work, we generally ate together. I hate eating alone, and she kept me company.
A pang pierces me. The good old times are never coming back. Things are too different now.
“Is there anything we need to do to make sure…you know.” I gesture at her belly.
“No. I just need to take it easy. And make an appointment to see Dr. Silverman as soon as possible.”
The definitive tone of her voice says the topic’s over, even though the soft frown on her face says there is more to it than what she’s sharing. If she’s trying to make clear how much she wants to keep me out, she’s doing a damn good job.
The next few minutes pass in a silence that feels like a boulder pressing down on me. Paige’s shoulders are sloped down, her spine half-slumped into a C. She’s feeling it as much as me.
I make small talk about some scripts I’ve been reviewing. She nods at the right times, but there’s no spark in her eyes. After a while, I give up.
A small bit of annoyance knots inside my gut. We still haven’t talked about what’s important—the sex tape, her visit with Anthony, how we should handle everything. I don’t want to talk about any of that anyway until she’s feeling better. But it’s hard when she’s shutting me out, acting like she’s some kind of martyr.
It’s not my fault things are the way they are.
We finish our meals at the same time. She places her utensils back on the table precisely so, as if everything depends on their proper alignment.