“Well, if you play your cards right and stop texting a random woman, I might even let you ruin this one.” Her botox-injected forehead doesn’t move an inch, but her lips purse as she takes another sip of her wine.
She’s upset.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Or maybe not,” she adds.
Irritated she even has the audacity to act jealous, I demand, “Who were you with last week?”
Her lips part, hinting at her surprise, but she recovers quickly. “What do you mean? I told you I was in New York with Gianna.”
“Just like you had dinner with her last weekend?” I growl. “And the previous weekend?”
Her lips pull down, and she places her hand on top of mine resting on the table. “I told you Gianna bailed last weekend, and I ended up hanging out with Camila and––”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Scarlett?” I ask.
She jerks back as if I’ve slapped her, and her hand leaves mine. “What? Of course, I don’t think––”
“I think you do.” I lean back in my chair and spread my legs wide. “Because I would have to be stupid to not piece together what you are doing behind my back.”
Again, she reaches for my hand across the table, but I pull it out of her reach.
“I haven’t been doing anything behind your back, Henry,” she whispers, wringing her fingers in her lap. “I love you. You mean the world––”
“I want all your shit packed and out of my house by the time I return from Creekside.”
The blood drains from her face, and she looks around, searching for someone who might snap a photo and document her embarrassment. She doesn’t need to worry. I’m embarrassed enough for both of us and made it a point to have security keep all potential reporters and paparazzi from capturing this moment and posting it online.
Still, Scarlett cheated on me. I previously assumed, but now I know with certainty.
Then again, I guess I always knew. I felt it in my gut. It doesn’t matter that we never loved each other. It doesn’t matter how I’m happier alone than when I’m with her. She still cheated. Still tried to hide it from me. Still attempted to manipulate me.
It’s unacceptable.
“No,” I decide. “I want your shit packed and out of my house by tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t mean that, Henry,” she whispers. “Give me a chance to explain––”
“We’re through, Scarlett.” I push the chair away from the table and head to my car parked outside. I had already paid the waiter for the bottle of wine. As for her salad? Well, I think she can handle paying for one meal after charging her fuck-cation to the credit card I gave her.
I need to ask Erika to cancel it tomorrow morning.
But at least it’s over. We’re over.
At least our sham of a relationship can be laid to rest.
At least I never loved her.
12
MIA
Welp. My bags were packed, and the flight was pretty uneventful. I played cards with Beck, then watched part of The Lord of The Rings with Colt and Theo. And when we landed, we took a big, fancy bus to the hotel.
It’s nice.
Like, super nice.
With gold chandeliers and marble pillars. The most expensive hotel I’ve ever stayed in was a Fairfield Inn. Still clean. Nice. Comfortable. But compared to this? It might as well have been a trailer park. My lips part as I step past the doorman, taking a seat on one of the sofas across from the in-house bar while Erika checks everyone in.
One by one, the players find their rooms, leaving the hotel lobby more and more empty until only a handful of us remains.
Erika’s face turns red as she pulls her iPad from her large Coach purse decorated with little bees and searches for something, but I don’t know what she’s looking for. A minute later, the hotel manager approaches and stands beside the poor man trying to help Erika. He’s apologizing to her. Or at least, I think it’s what he’s doing. I’m not exactly a lip reader.
The tension, though? The way Erika keeps scanning the lobby and furiously searching her iPad? Yeah. Something is going on, and I have no idea what the problem is.
Another minute goes by, and my curiosity gets the best of me. Standing, I head toward the quiet chaos at the check-in area, but they’re too distracted to notice my presence.
“I’m sorry. We’re completely booked,” the hotel manager says from behind the desk. His fingers tap furiously against the keyboard. He shakes his head as the initial worker manning the desk stands idly beside him. “My associate is right. There’s nothing.”
“I need four more rooms,” Erika states.
“What’s the problem?” a low voice barks.
I flinch at the sharpness in Buchanan’s voice as he strides toward the check-in area with sure, confident steps.
Erika gulps but explains, “They don’t have the last four reservations. I called––”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager interrupts. “There’s a marathon this weekend, and the majority of rooms have been booked for over six months. I understand Miss Brewer,”––the hotel manager motions to Erika––“initially called and made a change to her reservation, but we believe there was a miscommunication on our part, and we don’t have enough rooms available for a party your size.”
Buchanan’s jaw tightens, but he hides his frustration well as he turns to Erika. “How many people still need rooms?”
She scans her iPad for the hundredth time and scoots her wire-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “You, Beck, Greer, and Ms. Rutherford. I have family in town, so I wasn’t planning to stay at the hotel, or else I’d be more than happy to give up my own room, but––”
“Let me check something,” the manager interrupts. The familiar tap-tap from his keyboard echoes throughout the nearly silent reception area. He sighs and looks at Buchanan. “We have a two-room suite available, as well as a standard king-sized bed. I’m sorry, but it’s the absolute best we can do.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Greer chirps behind me. His shoulder is pressed against one of the marble pillars in the lobby, and his eyes are glued to his phone. “I love Beck and all, but I’m not sharing a bed with anyone unless it’s Mia.”
“Dude, if anyone’s sharing a bed with Mia, it’s me,” Beck argues from the couch. I hadn’t noticed they’d been eavesdropping, but apparently, they deserve more credit. Ever the gentlemen, wanting to share a room with a single woman.
Subtle, boys. Really subtle.
I start to tell them off when Buchanan interrupts, “You two will share the suite. Mia will take the standard room for herself.”
“And you?” Erika asks him.
He lets out a slow breath but announces, “I’ll stay at a different hotel.”
“Everywhere is booked,” the manager states. “Like I said, because of the marathon this weekend, along with the first game for the Stinging Nettles against the Lions––”
“I’m aware the Lions are playing,” Buchanan mutters.