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And then I remember who left with. If she hadn’t gotten any sleep, that means that she and Noam Tate—
“No,” she says quickly.
I recoil in horror. “Did I say that out loud?”
“No, but I could tell by your face what you were thinking. And no. Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“Nothing is not my business. I mean…” I shake my head, which only makes the spinning worse. “I apologize for saying you look tired. Women don’t like that.”
“No, we don’t.”
“You look beautiful, not tired at all.” Alas, the slurring makes it sound like bootiful, with a long o. “So much not tired that I would love if you stayed awake and came back to my room for breakfast.”
“No, thank you.” Even in my state, Cady’s voice is as icy as the Atlantic Ocean in January.
My hands go up. “Not like that,” I protest. “I seriously get a craving for pancakes when I drink. And I guess you can tell I’ve been drinking.”
The elevator door bumped into my back like a neglected lover demanding attention.
“I guess,” she says scornfully.
“So, want pancakes? They make them good here with real maple syrup or if you don’t like that, they have this blueberry syrup but it has a bit of bourbon, and I really don’t need any more to drink…” I trail off and try my best to give her a winning smile.
I don’t think it works.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t like to repeat myself, but in this case, I see I have no choice.” Cady heaves a sigh, sounding scarily like my father when I’ve pissed him off. I shake my head to rid myself of any comparisons between this goddess of a woman and my asshole of a father. “I don’t want to eat pancakes with you. I would like to enter the elevator and go home.”
She doesn’t sound like an asshole, so I give a gallant sweep of my arm and invite her in. “By all means. Join me.”
She drops her smile. “I’m not getting in that elevator until you get out.”
“Ah.” I step out, keeping my hand on the door to keep it open. “Sorry.”
“Mm-hmm.” The way she steps around me and into the elevator suggests she’s more annoyed rather than afraid, but she looks far away standing at the very back of the car.
I hate that I made her feel uncomfortable, but can’t seem to let go of the door. “I’m sorry. You said you’re going home? You’re not staying here?”
“That’s really none of your business.” Her voice is tired. More exhausted than annoyed. A woman like her shouldn’t be wandering the halls of a hotel in the middle of the night. She should be tucked up beside a man.
Not a man, unless it’s me as a man. Cady could be tucked up beside me and I would enjoy that. Not other men. Don’t want to picture that. “It’s just that I wanted to invite you for breakfast.” I try for cheerful instead of whining. Or begging. There’s a good chance I might be seen as begging.
Marcus will disown me as his friend if he hears about this.
She frowns. “There’s no way you’re making breakfast.”
“I can’t make breakfast.” I draw back, aghast and only half joking. “You think somebody who looks this good can cook?”
There—those lips twitch in what has to be a smile. The start of one, anyway. “I can cook,” she says.
“You think you’re prettier than me?” I protest.
“Boo-tiful, I think you called me.” Another twitch.
“You want to smile. I can tell.”
