Connolly pulls out sodden bills, which the guy takes without asking for ID. Connolly signs something and the guy passes him a key with a plastic room tag on it. Connolly stares at it.
“Your room key, kid,” the man says. “You’ve never seen one that isn’t electronic?”
I take the key. “I have. Thank you. Have a good night, sir.”
“Better than yours,” he says. “But don’t say I didn’t try to improve it.”
* * *
I unlock our room, push open the door and flick on the light as we hurry out of the rain. Inside is a king-sized bed and a jacuzzi.
“The honeymoon suite,” I say with a sigh. “Figures.”
Connolly takes the key. “You wait here. I’ll get us a proper room.”
I catch the back of his wet shirt. “Don’t bother. It’s a massive bed, and we’re adults. Plus, that jacuzzi tub looks kinda awesome right now, and I doubt it’s a standard feature. Oooh, is that complimentary champagne?” I pluck the key from his hand. “We’re staying.”
“I’m not sure I dare drink champagne that comes free with a hundred-and-fifty dollar suite.”
“All the more for me.” I look up at him. “I’m joking. If this really bothers you . . .”
“No, you’re right. It’s a very big bed. And you’ve earned that hot tub and champagne.”
“Excellent. Then it is decided.” I yank off my shoes, letting water ooze into the carpet. “We may also owe a cleaning bill.”
“Fine by me.”
I head to the jacuzzi. While this didn’t look like the most promising motel, it’s perfectly nice inside. Clean and tidy, and when I turn on the jacuzzi taps, blessedly hot water pours out.
“I suppose I should . . .” Connolly looks around the room. “I could take a shower while you have your bath.”
“If you want a shower, go for it,” I say. “If you’re trying to give me privacy, I have a bra and panties and bubble bath. You can rest on the bed or join me in the tub, where I will be enjoying . . .” I lift the sparkling wine from the ice bucket.
“I believe you aren’t supposed to drink in a hot tub,” he says.
“It’s a jacuzzi. Totally different thing. And if you point out that both contain hot water and therefore both come with the same warning, I will remind you that you do not need to share my tub or my bubbly, though you are welcome to both.”
He looks from the filling tub to me. “Are you certain you wouldn’t mind?”
“We are about to have a conversation that will go so much better with a hot bath and booze.” I walk to the closet, open it and pull out two thick robes. “Get out of that wet clothing and into this. When you come back, I will be in the tub, demurely hidden by bubbles.”
He accepts the robe and heads into the bathroom.
* * *
I turn my head when Connolly disrobes to climb into the tub. I don’t even sneak a peek, because that would be wrong, and really, I was kinda hoping he’d say, “You don’t need to look away—I’m wearing my boxers” so I could ogle guilt-free. Sadly, he does not. Still, since it’s not exactly a hot tub, it isn’t as if we’re submerged to our necks. I’m up to my armpits, which has him turning away sharply.
“It’s a bra, Connolly,” I say. “Not even a sexy bra. Basic black bra.”
“Yes, of course.” He clears his throat and, with great care, returns his gaze to let it rest on my face. I do not let my gaze rest on his face. I check out his shoulders, his upper chest, his biceps, all very nice. Then I hand him a glass of wine.
“You don’t need to drink it,” I say. “Just let me pretend I’m not drinking alone.”
He takes a sip, as if at a wine tasting. Then another.
“Interesting,” he says. “It doesn’t taste bad. Just different.”
“Well, as someone who has had a lot of cheap bubbly and little actual champagne, I place this firmly in the cheap bubbly category. But yes, it’s not necessarily bad. Just lacking the palate of actual champagne, I say as if I know what that means.”
His lips twitch. “I’m not much of a wine connoisseur myself. I have developed a few standbys, some of which I order with friends and some I order with people I wish to impress. Personally, I’d prefer a nice cocktail, but in my circles, that means a martini or a Manhattan, neither of which is quite to my palate.”
“Meaning not sweet.”
His smile grows. “Exactly. Were you to check my fridge at home, you would find a half dozen bottled coolers, all pretty shades of pink and electric blue.”
“Then I should have checked your fridge and stolen one to enjoy on the back deck, which is gorgeous, by the way.”
“Thank you.” He sips the wine. “And that eases us into the subject we must discuss. How you got from my back deck to wherever my father put you.”
“It’s a bit of a long story.”
He meets my gaze. “How much you want to tell me is obviously up to you, but I’d like the whole thing.”
I nod and begin.
Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-one
I’ve finished. I told him everything. Well, almost everything. When I explained about the painting, I downplayed it. Not as bad as the Eldest Daughter. Just paper cuts, which I can’t even feel now. The last part is true, mostly because of the sparkling wine and the hot water and the unbelievable relief of just being here, safe with Connolly.
I don’t mention any of the terrifying moments, especially that one where that sword went through my neck. I’ll deal with that on my own and, if I’m being honest, I think anyone else—even Connolly or my sisters—would struggle to truly understand the horror of it. It’s a thing one needs to experience, and in trying to make someone understand, I’d experience it again. I know it was horrifying. I know I’m safe now and was never truly in danger, so I’ll take that as comfort.
Connolly doesn’t let me rush through the painting part. He makes sure I’m okay, and I can honestly say I am, at least in this moment. That is enough. So I move on and finish the story.
When I’m done, Connolly sits quietly for a moment. Then he says, “How desperate do I sound if I’m relieved my mother doesn’t seem to have been involved in your captivity?”
“It sounds as if you’re a normal guy dealing with abnormal family problems.”
“Abnormal.” A snorted laugh bubbles up, and he takes another sip. “That is one way of putting it.”
“Your mother honestly believes I’m a gold-digger and you need her protection.”
“Because my father fed her the evidence to support her delusion.”
“I never said—”
“You don’t need to. I will straighten this out with my mother, though I’m not sure how much that helps.” He gazes into his bubbly. “I’m not sure how much any of it helps.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
A snorted laugh. “Do they have Hallmark cards for that? Condolences on having a raging dick for a dad?”