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CHAPTER 13
Ford
I can tellHarrison is as rocked by what happened with Ivy and Liam as I am because he hasn’t said a word since we left them in front of the hotel.
Harrison is never this quiet for this long.
He might be trying to play this cool, as if he couldn’t care less that Liam and Ivy were kissing in front of the motel room door, but I can tell he does care. A lot.
I do too.
A lot.
More than I would have expected.
Sure, I’d entertained dirty thoughts about watching her kiss and touch—and be kissed and touched by—Harrison and Liam, but seeing it happen the way it had was…different.
They were kissing passionately. Privately. Like two people in love.
That was not a caught-up-in-a-dirty-moment. That wasn’t a product of being stuck in a motel room together.
That was clearly the culmination of long-held feelings.
Obviously reciprocal feelings.
Fuck.
Now Harrison and I are on our way to South Carolina.
Did we need to charter a private plane? Of course not. Did we do it so we didn’t have to drive to Amarillo to the airport, and then sit in a busy terminal waiting, and then sit on a full plane with a bunch of other people when we are both feeling big hurtful feelings? Yes. At least that’s why I did it. Harrison did it because it’s second nature. He loves to fly private.
He’s always told me that he’s not built for commercial air travel, and he even proved it to me once when I made him fly a regular airline incoachto spring break, telling him it was part of the experience.
He was amazed by everything about it.
Not in a good way.
It really is less annoying to just pay to fly my spoiled baby friend private for as long as I can afford it. Someday I might not be able to. At which time I will simply stop traveling with Harrison.
He’s staring out the window and I study him as I lift the glass of whiskey to my lips.
Should I be on my second whiskey without any food in my stomach at ten a.m.? Of course not.
But this is how I am choosing to handle the fact that Ivy is already taken. Again.
And the fact that I had two chances to fuck the woman of my dreams and I passed them both up.
I glance at my phone, then I’m annoyed with myself for doing so.
I left. Do I really expect her to immediately start texting and begging me to come back?
Okay, yes, a small part of me does.
Which is ridiculous. She owes me nothing. She certainly shouldn’t have to chase after me. It’s beneath her and I respecther for not indulging in my bullshit. I stomped off without talking and I get what I get.
Which is drunk on a plane.
My phone buzzes and hope blooms in my chest.