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Jasper clears his throat. “So, Elizabeth, is this your best friend? The one who’s not a distraction.”
Elizabeth? No one has ever called her by her given name.
She deadpans on him. No matter how she responds, she knows her trainer has shoved a knife into my gut and twisted. On top of that, Lettie lied and call me her best friend? Of course, I am, but while I’ve been telling anyone who will listen that Lettie and I are a couple, she’s been hiding it from her new trainer. And why did she say I wasn’t a distraction, not that I want to be, but it’s like she doesn’t want him to know how she feels about me.
Unsure of how to react, I extend my hand. I have six to eight inches on him, but he’s fit. “Dane Greathouse.”
It takes him a moment before I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Jasper Cole. Lettie, just because your best friend is here, doesn’t change things. I’ll see you at five in the morning. If you want what’s best for her, you’ll head home tomorrow.”
He walks off as Lettie nods, then looks at the floor, studying the floral design on the carpet. “Are you hungry?” she asks.
Hungry? Right now, I want to push my fist through Jasper’s face. He’s known her for a week and thinks he knows what’s best for her. Well, fuck him. My jaw tightens, as envy squeezes my throat. “Yeah, a little.”
She gives me a ghost of a smile. That’s the thing, Lettie and I aren’t new to each other. The sex is new, outwardly showing our emotions is new, but right now, she knows what I’m thinking.
I’m pissed off that she’s having dinner with her trainer while not having time to talk to me or even Brooke.
And I know what’s running through her mind.
What right does he have to tell me who I can have dinner with and when?
Neither of us say what’s on the tips of our tongues. Instead, I say, “How about we order room service? Are you done for the night… with your training?”
She bites her lip and nods. The camera crew goes around another table to get behind us and as soon as we make it down the hallway and back into the lobby filled with plush white couches and golden lights, I ask them to leave. They’re staying in the hotel and flying back with me on Sunday after Lettie’s competition.
“Is there a reason you have cameras following you?” she asks, lacing her arm through my elbow. “Are you on a reality show?”
“No, I flew private, and this was the deal. The wife of the owner of Crown Jewel Farm is a reporter for the Channel 8 News. I agreed to let her capture our meeting. I thought it would be romantic.” I press my lips together.
“It was. I’m so happy you’re here.”
I press the button on the elevator. “What floor?”
“Seven.”
The door opens and closes behind us. We’re the only ones, and we both cackle, remembering the last time we were in an elevator together. “Fun times,” she says with a wink and grin.
“So much fun.” My finger hovers over the stop button, teasing her. “Want a second go?” It dings as we get to the seventh floor.
We walk down the hallway hand in hand, and my jealousy has dissipated. She swipes her key card and pulls me inside.
“No, I want to get in my pajamas and talk until I fall asleep.”
Some reunion.
Chapter Thirty
LETTIE
While he orders room service, I change out of my dress. Clean the makeup from my face and brush my teeth. I pop on my pajamas—cotton camisole and matching yellow boy shorts.
Still shocked that Dane flew to Florida to see me, a memory hits me.
Dane and I were about eight or nine years old, playing with his Stretch Armstrong. The action figure had blonde hair and a stocky muscular body that you could pull and twist. We put marks on the pavement with chalk every twelve inches and held onto an arm and a leg. Wanting to see how far he could stretch the toy before he broke, we started toe to toe, then backed up one foot at the same time. We made it to six feet each for a total of twelve feet before Stretch Armstrong’s rubber skin spat. Of course, we pulled harder and stepped back another foot when what could only be described as goo leaked from his body.
I can’t recall ever thinking about this moment before. What triggers memories?
“Damn, Lettie, or should I call you Elizabeth?”
