Page 35 of PS: I Hate You
“What the fuck?” I mutter, parking on the gravel drive.
When I pull out my phone and double-check everything, it’s clear I have the right place. I even google the address, and this cabin comes up on a rental website.
I swipe over to my email and realize I overlooked a sentence when reading Dom’s message.
Code is the last four digits of my number.
Hotels don’t need codes. Houses with automatic locks do.
It’s not outlandish that I missed the directive. My eyes took in the address and dismissed all other words he wrote, avoiding as much of Dom as I could.
With a frustrated huff, I shove out of my car and stomp to the front door. As instructed, I type in the four-digit code from the phone number I refuse to use in any other context.
The lock clicks, and I storm into the cabin.
It’s empty.
And damn him…
The place is incredible.
Everything is wood, and dark metal fixtures, and warm lighting, and soft furniture. Fuzzy blankets lay draped over the backs of the sofas, and a massive stone fireplace begs to be set aflame. The open floor plan shows a kitchen and small dining table in addition to the cozy sitting area.
Trying to ignore the lumberjack wet dream, I sulk across thethick, woven rug toward a hallway that—thank the universe—reveals doors to two bedrooms and a bathroom.
“What is this nonsense?” I hiss to the beautiful, empty hideaway.
“What’s wrong?”
I guess not so empty after all.
Dom looms in the entrance, taking up the whole doorway with his broad shoulders.
My eyes wander over those shoulders that are covered in soft flannel, as if he dressed to match our accommodations. My traitorous gaze takes in the rest of him, searching for some flaw. But there’s nothing—other than the man as a whole.
Because he hurt me, and my body still wants him.
“What’s wrong,” I grit, reminding myself of my fury, “is you booking us a teeny tiny house to stay in. Together. What the hell?”
Dom closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath that sounds a lot likeI’m on the verge of strangling this ungrateful brat.
“It has good ratings,” he responds after his meditative breathing. “And it’s close to the coordinates.”
“I’m sure hotels are around here, too. You know, places where we don’t share a bathroom.” I throw a thumb toward the only toilet I see in this place.
I can’t poop for the next twenty-four hours.The irrational thought blares in my head. No matter that everybody poops, and I’ve done so plenty of times in Dom’s parents’ house when I was growing up.
Suddenly, as if my intestines heard my vow to give up normal digestive practices, I need to use the facilities.
Urgently.
Unaware of the turmoil in my mind and abdomen, Dom fully enters the cabin and shuts the door behind him.
“You don’t like hotels,” he says.
The comment, quiet as it was, reverberates in the air between us. Bringing upthatnight.
The night we will never,everdiscuss.