Page 12 of Reverence

“Then it’s settled. Amala takes the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”

I said it as nonchalantly as possible, as though sharing a suite with the woman who had spent years getting under my skin was the most reasonable solution in the world.

The weather in Vista could only be described as oppressive. The heat was relentless, the kind that left you sweating after only a few minutes beneath the sun.

Yet Amala’s stare could have frozen the entire hotel.

Her glacial gaze swept over me, sending a chill down my spine despite the sweltering heat surrounding us.

“Are you sure?” Kehlani asked. Using that empathetic tone of voice.

I nodded before Amala could get another word in.

“Absolutely.”

“Thank goodness that’s sorted.” She smiled brightly. “I’ll get the keys.”

The second she disappeared, Amala stepped closer.

“If we didn’t have witnesses, I would’ve dragged you across this hotel floor.”

Her voice was low enough that Gabriella couldn’t overhear us, but every word reached me perfectly.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“You were overcomplicating the situation.”

“Overcomplicating?”

She smiled menacingly, her teeth clenched.

“I’m living in hell. That’s the only explanation.”

She muttered the last part more to herself than to me.

“Don’t be dramatic.” I shook my head. “We’ll spend most of the weekend with our friends, and at night, we’ll sleep. Separately.” I paused, making sure she understood. “It’s one weekend. You’ll survive.”

The last sentence came out harsher than I intended, but judging by the look she gave me, perhaps that was for the best.

Then her perfume reached me.

Fresh.

Sweet.

Subtle enough that I shouldn’t have noticed it but I did.

My throat tightened, and I cleared it before taking an instinctive step backward.

Amala stared at me for another moment before turning on her heel and rejoining her friends without another word.

I watched her walk away, but the scent of her perfume remained.

It lingered around me long after she was gone, clinging to the air like an unwanted reminder of the mistake I’d just made.

I told myself it was only a weekend.

One weekend.