Page 34 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Her father exhales like I’ve performed brain surgery. “Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.”

Macie hops off the chair and throws her arms around my waist in a quick, fierce hug before running off with her dad.

I watch them, thinking of my own father, until they disappear into the lobby. When I turn back, Carrson’s still staring at me with his head cocked to the side.

“What?” I ask.

His mouth parts, then closes again. “Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

He steps closer, his hands finding my waist. “She trusted you.”

“She’s four. Her standards are low.”

“Not that low.” His thumbs move once against my shirt. “You’re good with kids,” he says it thoughtfully. “I didn’t know.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” I say, aiming for mysterious.

“Mmm. Apparently, I like it,” he smiles, “watching you be kind.”

My heart does a silly little flip. “That’s because you spend too much time around people who think kindness is a tactical error.”

“It usually is.”

“Carrson.”

“I said usually.” He leans down and gives me a soft, quick kiss. “Not always.”

**

Carrson doesn’t talk much after dinner. We go upstairs to our room, and I tuck myself into bed, propped against the pillows with the book I brought from home open in my lap.

Carrson goes to take a shower, but when I don’t hear the water turn on I look up.

He’s standing in the bathroom doorway, watching me.

Emotions wash over his face too quickly for any one to stay: worry, sadness, then longing. Fondness is the last emotion to appear, and the only one he lets remain.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He smiles, but his eyes stay sad. “I just like seeing you like this. In bookworm mode. Waiting in bed for me.”

I put my hand to my chest, as if I can hold in the warmth he just put there. “I like it too.”

Bookworm Laurel. Art by: Momo Mitsuko

He leaves the bathroom door cracked after that. Steam spills into the bedroom while he showers, carrying the clean scent of soap with it.

I must doze off because the next thing I know it’s past midnight and I’m blinking awake. I search the room, but Carrson’s not there. The balcony door stands open, curtains billowing in the cool night air.

I push through them, expecting to find him sitting outside. Instead, a pair of bare feet dangle in front of me.

I move to the edge of the balcony, next to the railing, and look up.

Carrson’s on the roof of the hotel.

The roof.