Page 28 of Not Safe for Work

The elevator dings, and we ride in silence as it slowly climbs to the top floor. Just as the doors slide open, Rafe’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, hanging back as I head down the hall.

“Hey,” I hear him say as he follows several paces behind. “What’s up?”

There is a weariness in his voice that makes me look back.

“Hold on just a minute.” He presses his phone to his chest as we enter the suite. He kicks off his shoes and dumps his bag on the sofa before stepping onto the balcony and firmly sliding the door behind him.

He paces for a minute, running his hand through his hair before facing the balcony, leaning on the ledge with an elbow, his head dropping forward. It’s a posture of defeat.

An unfamiliar knot of worry twists in my stomach. I’ve spent the better part of five years consciously and unconsciously aware of every move Rafe Gallagher makes. Our close proximity is concentrating that awareness, calcifying it into something I’m not sure how to name. It sits lodged in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a chess piece.

Turning away, I enter the bedroom, close the door, and walk to the dresser to pull out my swimsuit. It’s then I notice the balcony door at this end has been left open, possibly by the cleaners. The gauzy white curtains billow into the room like ghosts as I catch snippets of Rafe’s voice drifting from the far end of the balcony.

I should close the door. This is none of my business.

“Hannah,” I hear him say in an exasperated voice that I thought he mainly reserved for me. This is an egregious violation of his privacy, and I’m a terrible, horrible person who will roast in the flames of hell. But I also move closer to the door. “Can you please stop?”

I hold very, very still, worried he might hear me if I so much as blink. My hand grips the handle as I will myself to close it. But my curiosity is as hungry as a shark scenting blood.

I lean forward ever so slightly, wishing the ocean would shut up and stop muffling his words.

“I know that,” he’s saying now. “Look, the next few weeks are going to be really intense. I won’t have much time to talk. We’ll discuss this when I get home, okay?”

I frown. Sure, we’re busy, but they’re also giving us plenty of free time. Even after checking emails from the office, he should have time to address whatever seems so important. It definitely sounds like something’s wrong, though.

Rafe has gone silent, and I wonder if he’s hung up when he speaks again. “Hannah, I gotta go.” I can hear the strain in his voice. Like he’s doing everything in his power to remain patient. “There’s a thing I have to get to.”

Then he goes silent, and I hear the balcony door open as he reenters the suite. I resume changing, listening as Rafe bangs around in the kitchen, slamming the cupboards and muttering to himself.

This is none of my business. Rafe isn’t my friend, and his problems aren’t my responsibility. But he almost smiled at me today, and our fight about the Ferris wheel was so ridiculous that I find myself opening the door. Wearing my high-waisted red polka-dot bikini, I pad into the kitchen in my bare feet.

“You okay?” I ask, regretting the words the instant they’re out of my mouth. Why am I getting involved?

He runs a hand down his face and then through his hair, causing it to stand on end. He’s undone the top buttons of his shirt, and I catch a fleeting slice of an exquisite collarbone attached to a smooth, hard chest.

“Not really,” he admits, bracing his hands against the counter. He’s opened a beer and is staring intently at it as if it might break into song.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His gaze flicks to me, and for once, there is no menace in it. No dark, brooding glare. His supervillain is dormant.

If anything, he looks anguished and vulnerable, and something about that unlocks a door somewhere deep in my soul. I see several things cross his face. Distrust. Fair enough—why am I being nice to him? Frustration. But for once, it’s not directed at me. And finally, weariness. But I have no idea what that’s about.

He shakes his head, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved when he says, “No, I don’t want to talk about it. You should go get ready.”

I open my mouth to reply, but there’s a dismissal in his tone, so I refrain. I don’t take it personally. Whatever this is, he needs a moment, and it isn’t my place to push him. This has nothing to do with me.

“Okay, if you change your mind, you know where I’m staying,” I joke as I gesture to the bedroom.

Though his face doesn’t change, something else happens. It’s not a smile, but it’s not that twisted smirk, either. It’s a flicker in his eyes, so subtle that I’m sure anyone else would miss it. But I see it because I’ve logged five years studying Rafe’s every gesture and silent look.

Amusement. The tiniest spark of laughter lights up his eyes like faceted shards of topaz. It squeezes my lungs like a fist.

“Sure,” he says. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

I nod and then return to the bedroom to finish getting ready.

No, it wasn’t a smile, but it was… something.

Chapter Eight