Hot damn, was she worth it.
Just wish I’d have known that my first time fucking her . . . was going to be my last.
Chapter 11
Delilah
I check my phone for the umpteenth time, and my heart does a little jig when I see my sister finally replied to my fifteen hundred text messages.
I want to yell at her for bailing, but I’m so relieved that she’s okay that I let it go.
DAPHNE: WITH WESTON. HE’S COOL. HAVING FUN. DON’T WORRY. MEET YOU AT THE HOTEL LATER.
Replying, I tell her to keep me updated, to text me when she’s on her way back, and to stay safe and keep her phone on her at all times. I’m sure I sound completely ridiculous, but she’s always been the adventurous one.
I’ve always kept close to home and played it safe. I couldn’t even move across the country for school – I had to move halfway across the country.
She’s the one who flew across the ocean for nine months and took some Parisian lover and spent her days drinking wine and restoring antique oil paintings in the back room of some fancy museum.
I should trust her, and I’ve been around Weston enough to know he’s not a slime ball.
But I just worry.
After changing into pajamas, I brush my teeth, watching my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing way too much makeup, but I’m having a rare good hair day despite the Florida humidity that tends to swell my strands.
I rinse my mouth, running my fingers through a loose tendril and breaking up the curl as I recall how Zane said he liked my hair down.
It’s only when I’m changing into my pajamas that I pause and think about what he said earlier about control.
He’s right. And I know it. But admitting it feels like defeat. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be me. Growing up, my family has always teased me about my control-freak tendencies, but I can’t change that part of me any more than I can make my eyes switch from brown to blue.
I can just hear my Interpersonal Psychology professor’s analysis in my head . . .
Control is safe.
And Zane makes me lose it.
Therefore, Zane is not safe.
It’s a simple equation. And Jesus, Zane figured it out without a graduate degree, so props to him. I just can’t . . . I can’t do this with him. There are no rules or definitions or boundaries or expectations.
He makes me feel like I’m falling with no safety net.
Slipping my pajama top above my head, I tug it down and grab the ice bucket and my hotel room key.
Halfway down the hall, I spot the sign for the vending area and trudge along. Rounding the corner, I stop when I see another hallway of rooms . . .
. . . and Zane de la Cruz seated on the floor outside one of the doors.
I clear my throat, and he glances up.
“Well, shit.” His knees are bent, his elbows resting upon them, and he looks over at me.
I tuck the ice bucket under my arm.
“Before you accuse me of following you to your hotel . . .” He places his hand up in protest.
“It’s okay,” I say. I’m too exhausted to argue with him, and it makes sense that he’s here. Hotel Azul is connected to its namesake club below, and the nearest hotel is eight miles north of here.
I press the ice canister against the dispenser and listen to the groan of the machine.
“Why are you getting ice at . . .” he checks his watch, “eleven-thirty at night?”
Shrugging, I cap the canister and hold it against my side. “I have a thing about hotel ice.”
His brows furrow. “Of all the things to have a thing about.”
“It has a different texture,” I say. “It’s kind of light and airy and crisp. It’s fun to crunch. Don’t judge me.”
“Hard not to when you tell me weird shit like that. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re picky as hell about everything else.”
“Why are you sitting in the hall?” I ask, ignoring his commentary.
“Kai commandeered our room.”
Frowning, I glance at the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob. “Can he do that?”
“Not the end of the world. He’ll kick her out in about,” he glances at his watch, “two or three more hours.”
“So you’re just going to sit out here until then?”
Zane shrugs. “Where else am I going to go? Wasn’t going to hang out at the bar by myself.”
“Fine. Come on.” I motion for him to follow me. He looks confused. And tired as hell to boot. “You going to get up or what?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not going to leave you sitting out here until three in the morning. You can sleep on the pullout sofa in our room.” I turn and head back to our room, unsure if he’s going to follow or not, but I’m not getting any younger, and I’m not in the mood to sit around and present my case.