Page 16 of Still Missing You

He smirks, and I hate how good he looks. His black hair is messy and tousled, and my fingers itch to touch the strands to see if his hair is as thick and soft as I remember. Those blue eyes, the color of the sea, are deep and bright despite the dull light. “Are you?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I open the car door and get out. I go around to the truck bed, lift out my duffel bag, then Dylan’s suitcase, and the weight nearly pulls my arm from the socket.

“Holy shit.” I set his case down next to the truck. “What do you have in here, a body?”

“We’re here for five days. I didn’t want to risk running out of clothes.” He shoots my bag a disdainful look. “You can’t possibly have enough to wear in there.”

Of course, I brought enough clothes. More than enough—fresh jeans, shirts, and underwear for every day we we’re here. Besides, we’ll be tracing Matthew’s last steps in this town, talking to the people he knew, not attending some kind of gala function. I have everything I could possibly need.

Dylan slides out his case’s plastic handle and tips it forward on its wheels before he reaches for my hand and laces his fingers with mine. The touch of his warm skin against mine sends a hum up my arm like a low-grade electric charge. Goosebumps prick my skin, and my stomach pulls tight. If I thought I was tense on the drive up, every part of me feels tight and brittle. Like I might shatter into pieces at the lightest touch.

Instinctively, I try to yank my hand back, but Dylan’s grip tightens.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

He shoots me a pointed look and doesn’t let go. “We’re supposed to be a couple on a romantic getaway, remember? We have to act like we like each other.”

“I remember.” I haven’t stopped thinking about playing the role since Dylan called me his boyfriend in front of his friends. I should hate it, after the way things ended, the way Dylan walked away from me like I meant nothing to him. It should make every second I’m with him awful, a chore. Instead, his hand in mine feels natural, right? Discussing the state of the inn we’re checking into and arguing about our luggage feels easy, as if all the years between then and now had never happened.

Without letting go of Dylan’s hand, I hoist my bag over my shoulder and follow him inside. The inn’s foyer is dark and oppressive. A cloying floral scent hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. Dark paneling covers the walls, the same gleaming wood as the floors and flared staircase. An ornate, rounded desk set in the back corner serves as the inn’s reception area, and Dylan taps the silver bell on the edge of the desk, a sharp chime cutting the quiet.

“I feel like we’ve stepped back in time,” he says, and before I can respond, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a too-tight skirt and blazer, her pink blouse gaping between the buttons just under her chest, emerges from a sitting room. Her honey-blonde hair is cut in a severe bob, dry and brittle from over-processing.

She smiles and makes her way behind the desk, leaving a trail of perfume, that cloying, sweet scent, like an invisible jet stream behind her. “Checking in?”

Dylan nods. “The reservation is under Moore.”

Dylan made the reservation after I had left his place. I had a long drive back to Burlington ahead of me, and I’d been frustrated that I couldn’t talk Dylan out of what would no doubt turn out to be a huge mistake.

He starts to dig his wallet out of his pants pocket, but I’m faster. I pass my credit card to the woman. “I got it.”

“Thank you,” the woman says. “I’m Nancy Ellis. My husband and I own the Willow Brook.”

“Hunter Cade,” I tell her, but she already knew that, given she was holding my credit card.

“I’m Dylan. This place is fantastic,” he lies. “So much character. Don’t you think, babe?” He grins at me, grasping my hand again, daring me to say something to the contrary. My jaw tightens.

“It’s great,” I manage to grit out.

By the time we reached Coldwater, his easy grin was back, and my irritation kicked up a notch. He was having entirely too much fun.

“If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll have my husband help you with your bags,” Mrs. Ellis says.

“That’s not necessary,” I tell her, quickly. “We can manage.” And it’ll serve Dylan right, having to haul his suitcase up that staircase.

“If you’re sure.” Mrs. Ellis eyes Dylan’s case skeptically as she comes out from behind the desk. “This way.”

We follow Mrs. Ellis up the stairs, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning every time I hear Dylan grunt and the bottom of his case thump against each tread as he muscles it up the steps.

“I’ve put you in the front room,” Mrs. Ellis says, leading us down a dimly lit hallway to a door tucked in the corner. She slips an old iron key that looks like it’s original to the house, turns it in the lock, then pushes the door wide open.

A large queen-sized bed with a white iron frame takes up most of the space. A yellow and green handmade quilt covers the bed, along with a stack of matching pillows, and a small white dresser and side tables on either side of the bed take up the rest of the space. Through a partially open door, I can see an ensuite bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. The room is tidy, a little frilly for my taste, but clean and welcoming. The air, though, smells stale and stuffy, as if the room hasn’t been used in a while.

“This is nice,” Dylan says, moving closer to me so his shoulder brushes mine as his fingers tangle with mine again. I grit my teeth. I swear he’s doing it just to get under my skin. “Cozy. I think we’ll be very comfortable.”

We? I turn to Mrs. Ellis and wait for her to present another key, instruct one of us to follow her to another room, then a slow dawning trickles over me like a spring rain; there’s no other room, just this one. Dylan only booked one room.

I swing around to face him, and he must have read my expression, because he shoots me a pleading look before stepping into my space.