There’s no sound of his shoes clambering or heavy breathing, because it’s apparent he’s angry with me. I’m surprised he didn’t chase me to my room to argue and tell me everything is my fault.
I don’t blame him for hating me.
I hate myself for falling into Bridget’s trap, believing her to be a good person. That was my mistake, not seeing the signs, the bright neon overhead flashing and warning me to get out while I still had my pride.
And while I still had a chance with Logan.
I shuffle into my hotel room, shut and lock the door, dropping my purse on a nearby end table.
My phone buzzes inside in my purse. It’s a text.
I ignore it. More than likely it’s junk, something I don’t even need to see.
I remove my black heels and unzip my dress, wanting to wear something comfortable after the day I just had.
A second text comes through, or maybe it’s the first one reminding me I haven’t checked it.
Another buzz.
No, definitely two texts.
Sighing, I grab my phone from my purse and stare back at the text. Apparently, Logan must have unblocked me. At least long enough to send two messages.
I hate you.
Well, I didn’t need a text to tell me how he feels.
My stomach lurches when I read the second text.
I can’t stop thinking about you. Fuck, I’m falling in love, and you’re destroying me.
I grab my pajamas from my luggage and slip on a pair of long flannel bottoms and a long-sleeved shirt.
I shouldn’t answer Logan. He’s not in his right mind and I’m confident anything I say will only add fuel to an already rampant fire.
But my heart won’t stop pounding wildly at his admission that he’s falling in love with me. I grimace and grab my phone, texting him back.
You’re drunk. Don’t say things you’re going to regret in the morning. Good night.
I don’t expect him to answer, and I certainly don’t think we’ll see each other tomorrow or ever again. It’s more than likely that he’ll block me as a contact again, if he hasn’t already.
My phone pings once again.
We need to talk. Room number?
He sounds more sober, but that’s just the fact there’s no tone in a text. That, and he’s not rambling and slurring his words.
I take a moment to consider letting him know my room number. I shouldn’t indulge this little fantasy of mine. One of us making up, and me bringing him into my bed, moaning his name until the early hours of the morning.
I type my room number and then quickly erase it.We’ll talk when you’re sober. I click send and my fingers tap nervously against the phone screen, waiting for his response.
Bullshit. Room number?
I exhale a heavy breath. That’s more like I’d expect. He’s angry with me. I deserve his wrath, but I’m not fighting with him.
I ignore his text.
But that doesn’t stop him from sending another.