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I have three formidable females who are willing to shut down an entire spa to help me relax.
I have a friend who is willing to take a punch in the face for me.
And a best friend who…may have lost his title.
The whole time we’re laughing and enjoying ourselves, the message I sent to Kieran still lingers in my mind.
Has he read it now? Has he responded? Or have I been blocked and it’ll never be seen?
That final thought is like a kick in the chest.
Surely, he won’t have blocked me over this?
He just needs time.
As much as I’m looking forward to my dance class, I’m nowhere near ready to leave when Elizabeth points out that our time is nearly up.
These few hours of escape have been everything I didn’t know I needed. I feel lighter. Of course, my heart still feels like it’s been through a blender, but there is a little positivity seeping back in.
Thoughts of not belonging here have vanished, and my motivation is returning.
Despite telling myself that I’ll wait until I’m alone to check my cell, it’s the first thing I do the second I open my locker.
Hope builds within me.
But it all comes shattering down again when I discover that I don’t have a reply. And when I open the message thread and see that it’s been read, all the good work that had happened in the spa vanishes.
After saying goodbye to Tate and Lori, Elizabeth delivers me back to the office so I can collect my things and my car.
She hasn’t asked what happened since stepping into the changing room, but it’s obvious that something has.
Instead, she gives me a hug, tells me to call her if I need anything, and lets me climb out.
I’m on autopilot as I return to my office, tidy up my desk, then go and change again.
If I’d had any warning about our spa trip then I could have taken my dance clothes with me. I guess that would have ruined the element of surprise.
The drive to the studio is a disaster. The entire city seems to be gridlocked, and by the time I pull up in the parking lot, I’m frustrated and tense.
So much for the spa.
I park beside Brax’s fancy Maserati and rush toward the building.
I wave at the receptionist to let her know I’m here before crashing through the doors with only a minute to spare.
Brax is in his usual spot on the other side of the room, lacing his shoes, but despite the noise I made entering, he doesn’t turn to look.
I race over, pulling my dance shoes out of my bag as I go, and once I’m beside him, I toe my sneakers off.
“Sorry. The traffic was a nightmare,” I explain.
I glance over, but he doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t lower his hood or acknowledge my arrival in any way.
“Brax?” I question, my brows knitted together.
It takes another second for him to move, but when he does finally turn, it’s like the world has been pulled from beneath me.
“Y-you’re not?—”