Page 19 of Lovetown, USA

Trey

I balance the Tupperware container of still-warm blueberry muffins in one hand while I knock on the hotel room door with the other. It’s early enough that the hallway smells like industrial strength cleaning products. I half expect her not to answer.

When the lock clicks and the door swings open, Lane’s standing there in a loose T-shirt, hair messy from sleep, no makeup on. And she looks beautiful. Effortlessly. It’s startling in a way that makes me lose my bearings and forget why I’m here.

“I was worried about you,” I say, holding up the muffins like they’re evidence. “You didn’t respond to my text last night.”

Her lips twitch, but no smile. “So what are you gonna do, Officer? Write me a ticket for failure to check in?”

I chuckle at that. “You’re alone in a new city. And you drink. A lot.”

She rolls her eyes so hard, I imagine it has to hurt. “You my daddy now?”

“I could be.”

She tilts her head, giving me a look.

“Let me in, girl.”

She sighs, then steps aside as I move past the doorway. The room smells faintly like her perfume. On her bed, her laptop is open beside her silver flask, which is uncapped and lying flat, clearly empty. I pretend not to see it.

“Seriously, Trey.” She leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “Why do you care so much?”

“We’re friends, right?”

Her expression softens just a little. She reaches for the container, pops it open, and bites into a muffin while it’s still warm enough for steam to curl. She closes her eyes, humming low in her throat.

“Oh my God,” she says around the bite. “This is…amazing.” She swallows, her eyes wide with happiness. “You’re a good doctor and all, but I think this might be your true calling.”

“You want some coffee or juice? I can run down and grab you something.”

She shakes her head. “I’m good.”

I nod, but my eyes betray me. They flicker over to the flask on the bed.

She catches it and warns, “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can smell the judgment wafting from your pores.”

Silence stretches between us as she scarfs down the first muffin, then reaches for another. “I know why you’re really here,” she says. “You wanna know how my date went.”

I laugh at that and sink into the chair by the desk. “I mean…if you feel like sharing. I’m a good listener,” I lie.

She takes another bite, chewing slowly. “Out of responsibility and consideration for our situation, I feel obligated to inform you that me and Deacon were…intimate.”

The words land like a fist to my gut. My jaw tightens, but I manage keep my face neutral. I think.

“Thanks for telling me.”

“It was just oral. On his part,” she adds with a giggle.

I nod once, feeling slightly relieved, but my stomach knots anyway. I can’t decide how I feel. Irritated? Betrayed? Maybe somewhere in between. Definitely jealous. If I can’t diagnose shit else for myself, I damn sure recognize that unfortunate condition.

“You good?” I finally ask.

Her brows lift. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I gesture at the bed. “Because it’s eight in the morning and your flask is laid out next to your laptop.”

“Again with this shit?” She exhales hard. “I don’t know what’s not clicking. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I know. But hard as I try not to, I do. I can’t help but notice, Lane.”

“You’re nosy.”

I lean forward. “No. I’m your friend, remember?”

The word hangs between us until she finally sits, sagging against the bed, half a muffin forgotten in her hand.

“Fine.” She takes a deep breath. “My career is basically fucked, and it’s my own damn fault. I imploded in…epic fashion.”

She pauses, staring down at the muffin like it might come alive and comfort her.

“I used to write for The Beacon ,” she says, pausing to allow me to take that in. Which I do. That’s a major publication. I used to subscribe to it back in the day.

“And now, I’m blackballed in the journalism industry. This little online gig? I only have that because I’ve known my editor since journalism school.”

She bites off another piece and chews. “She’s taking a chance on me, but I don’t think…I don’t know if I’ll ever come back from what happened.”

I let the words sit. I don’t push. She doesn’t need that right now.

After a beat, I gently say, “Self-medicating isn’t the answer.”

Her lips curl. “Thanks for your concern, Doc.”

She downs the rest of the muffin, then stands, her back straight, shoulders squared. “I have some things I need to do today.”

The dismissal stings a bit, but I stand, respecting her wishes. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Yep.”

“Understood.” I step toward the door, then pause. “But before I go, come out with me tomorrow night. Lovers on the Lawn. It’s a big outdoor picnic with blankets and candles and a movie screening.”

Her laugh is biting. “That sounds horrible . Does it at least end with an orgy?”

“What?” I laugh with her, but mine is out of genuine amusement.

“Just trying to think of ways it could sound more interesting.” She considers, eyes narrowed like she’s weighing the potential outcomes of a dangerous gamble. “Fine. But only for research purposes.”

“Of course.” I move toward her, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. “By the way…even at eight in the morning, you are absolutely fucking beautiful .”

She smiles, and I leave her there with the promise of our date tomorrow and the smell of blueberries lingering in the air.