Chapter 27 (1/2)

“Yes, I have. I have tried mentally to get over this, but I can’t. I can’t trust that this isn’t still part of your game. I can’t trust you won’t hurt me again.”

I plug my curling iron in and sigh. “I need to finish getting ready.”

When I turn the blow dryer back on, he disappears from the bathroom, and I hope he leaves. The small part of me that hopes he’s sitting on the bed when I come out is an idiot. She isn’t the rational part of me. She’s the naive, ridiculous girl who fell in love with a boy who is the furthest thing from what she needs. Hardin and I will never work, I know that. I just wish she did, too.

I curl and style my hair, making sure that it will cover Hardin’s mark on my neck. When I walk out of the bathroom to gather my clothes, Hardin is sitting on the bed, and that stupid girl rejoices a little. I grab my light red bra and panties out of my bag and slip them on without removing my towel. When I drop the towel, Hardin gasps, then tries to hide it with a cough.

As I slip a dress over my head, I feel like I’m being pulled toward him by an invisible string, but I fight it and grab my white dress out of the closet. I feel strangely comfortable around him right now, considering our situation. Why is this all so confusing and consuming? Why does it have to be so complicated? And most importantly why can’t I just get over him and move on?

“You really should go,” I say quietly.

“Do you need help?” he asks when I struggle with zipping the dress.

“No . . . I’m fine. I’ve got it.”

“Here.” He stands up to walk over to me. We are walking this fine line between love and hate, anger and calm. It’s strange and surely toxic for me.

I lift my hair, and he zips my dress, taking longer than he should. I feel my pulse quicken and scold myself for allowing him to help me.

“How did you find me?” I ask him just as soon as the thought enters my mind.

He shrugs like he didn’t just stalk me across the state. “I called Vance, of course.”

“He gave you my room number?” I’m not pleased at the idea.

“No, the front desk did.” He gives a little smirk. “I can be very persuasive.”

That the hotel would do that doesn’t make me feel any better. “We can’t do this . . . you know, you making jokes and acting all friendly,” I say and step into my black heels.

He grabs his pants and starts putting them on. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not good for either of us to be around the other.”

He smiles, those evil dimples coming out. “You know that’s not true,” he says casually and puts on his T-shirt.

“Yes, it is.”

“No.”