Beauty from Surrender by Georgia Cates

me there."
    We're both silent in the cab on the way to the hotel. He looks straight ahead while I stare at him from where I'm sitting. I'm sure he must see me but I don't care. I can't stop because I'm afraid he'll disappear like a phantom.
    I want him to kiss me like crazy all the way to the hotel, but he doesn't. In fact, he never even looks in my direction. I wish I were brave enough to reach for his hand so I could get some kind of reaction from him, but I don't. I'm too afraid—I'm not sure where his head is after seeing Charlie kiss me.
    This isn't going to be good. Why did he have to see that?
    We walk through the luxurious hotel lobby and get onto the elevator. I'm closed up with him and two other people in the tiny space for only a minute or so, but the sexual tension we're radiating is almost suffocating. I want him so badly, it hurts. I need to touch him, to feel his skin against mine.
    I don't have time to brush up next to him because the elevator arrives on the sixth floor where his suite is located. After the door clicks behind us, my heart, and my body, rejoice. We are alone at last. And I'm scared to death.
    We've been apart for three months and another man is kissing me when Jack Henry sees me for the first time. The situation is a nightmare that never factored into any dreams or fantasies I had about our reunion.
    Damn, this sucks. What is he thinking? Is he angry with me? Or hurt? Or worse—maybe he doesn't care enough to feel pain or anger. I can't tell because he's being so obscure.
    The air conditioning is on and the room is really cold. I'm soaked to the bone and feel myself shivering. Or maybe I'm trembling from fear. Either way, he takes notice. "You're drenched and freezing to death. Go take a hot shower to warm up and we'll talk after you're finished."
    I think it's a bad sign he doesn't want to take me to bed and strip me out of these cold, wet clothes so he can warm me up himself. That's what my Jack Henry would do, without any hesitation at all.
    "Okay," I say, feeling deflated. This isn't what I had in mind. I'd hoped he'd want me as much as I want him. But he doesn't.
    I go into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Holy shit, I look awful. No wonder he wants me to shower. Who wants to look at this? I look like a drowned raccoon thanks to the black mascara smudged under my eyes. Beetlejuice never looked this shitty.
    I turn the water on as hot as I can tolerate and step under the raining heat. It feels good and I warm up in a matter of minutes. I use his masculine products to wash my hair and body and I remember the way these scents mix with his skin to create the most intoxicating essence. Oh, I have missed his smell.
    I hurry through my shower because I'm eager to be with him. Next to him. Hopefully, under him.
    Once I'm out, I blow-dry my hair using the hotel-provided dryer. I flip my head up and my tresses are wild and untamed. I could really use a brush. I rummage through my purse and find an old one floating around in the bottom. I brush out the tangles and wish I had a flatiron to smooth it down.
    I use his toothpaste and my finger to brush my teeth before I slosh around a mouthful of minty goodness. I would've preferred to have found a toothbrush in my purse to the hairbrush.
    Two luxurious velour robes hang on the back of the door. I slip one on. I don't really want to wear it. I'd like to hang it back on the hook and walk out naked. But I don't because he says he wants to talk.
    I come out of the bathroom and see him sitting on the couch. He's traded his wet clothes for a T-shirt and lounge pants like he used to wear around Avalon on his days off. He's drinking from a short, clear glass containing a dark amber liquid over ice. I suspect it's some kind of whiskey, which isn't like my Jack Henry at all. He never drank straight whiskey before and I'm suddenly more afraid than I already was.
    I stop just outside the bathroom, unsure what to do. He watches me from where he's