Page 9 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

S itting on the edge of my hotel bed, I stare at my phone. I’m gripping it so hard that the corners are starting to dig into my skin. I barely ever go into my Instagram requests; it’s typically a minefield of men behaving badly. To put it lightly.

But it’s Sunday night in Marsford Bay, and I’m crawling out of my skin, stuck with my spiraling thoughts and nothing to do. Jamie invited me for Sunday dinner, but I declined. One more flimsy excuse, and I know she’ll soon be on to me.

I’ll worry about the integrity of my friendship another day.

Right now, I’m staring at a mea culpa message from Oliver.

It was sent a few days ago from a fake account.

I feel sick , the shame and memory of being cheated on—and so publicly—threatening to pull me under.

I’ve been running from the feeling for weeks now.

I even flew back to Massachusetts to get away.

But none of that matters when I can just open up my phone and find him there, waiting for me like a poisonous snake in the grass.

I’m biting my lip bloody, staring at his words.

I’m so sorry … Please unblock me … It was a mistake … You’re the one I love … I was fucked up … Going to rehab … Please forgive me.

I can’t believe him, blaming his affairs on his drug and alcohol addiction as if I’m just some inconsequential collateral damage. I fucking hate him.

Finally having enough, I throw my phone across the room, hoping it shatters into a million little pieces.

It does not. I let out a pained shriek and fall backward onto the bed.

I’m struggling to keep the tears at bay.

Eventually, they do fall, silently traveling down my temples and disappearing into my hair.

I stare at the ceiling, the words from Oliver’s message etched into my vision. I watch them flash one by one against the white paint, taunting me.

I can’t stay in my hotel room for one second longer and jump up abruptly from the bed.

I settle for a late-night walk to clear my head.

My mind is still racing as I walk through the deserted streets of the North End. Although Marsford Bay is a large port city known for its many universities and bustling young demographic, the winters sometimes make it feel like a ghost town.

Especially when it’s this cold outside.

I barely feel the bite of the wind, the hood of my red Burberry coat shielding me from most of it. The city is full of Christmas spirit, snow falling lazily from the sky and blanketing the streets in white. Seeing all the decorations as I walk makes my teeth ache with childhood nostalgia.

Christmas was always an extravagant affair when I was young, as if my parents were making up for lost time compared to their absence during the rest of the year.

As a kid, I didn’t care, as long as I was showered with gifts.

The memory feels hollow now, but the nostalgia still lingers, especially when I’m feeling this lonely.

I had a good childhood, all things considered, if maybe a little neglected. My parents weren’t monsters, just not particularly present. At least they were supportive of my lofty goals, even when those aspirations were pipe dreams like moving to LA and becoming an actress.

Maybe I should move back home for good.

The thought knocks the wind out of me, and I stop in my tracks, sneakily looking around as if someone could have read my mind.

No way.

I can’t.

I have a life in California. Not to mention that I’d feel like a giant failure if I moved back home right after my breakup with Oliver. As if I were a mistreated puppy running away with its tail between its legs.

Nope—not a chance.

I’m just having an existential crisis.

It’ll pass.

Thankfully, I know exactly how to remedy it.

There’s a knock at my hotel door, and my heart skips a beat.

I down the rest of my Chablis before giving myself a quick once-over in the full-length mirror.

I opted for as little as possible—a braless tank top and silk shorts—considering the specific rendezvous.

I don’t want him to get any ideas, I messaged him for one thing and one thing only.

I slide the chain and unlock the door.

“Hi,” I say breathily, adding just the perfect mix of flirty and sexy.

“Hey,” Gael replies, quirking a smile.

He’s the DJ from Eden. He started following me on Instagram after I spent most of the night dancing near his booth. I never followed him back, but he’s been watching my stories for the past four days; I knew he’d be an easy catch.

I wave for him to come in, and he strolls in casually, making a show of pretending he’s interested in the room decor, hands in his jeans pockets.

“Want any wine? I have a bottle open in the mini-fridge.”

He looks over, his smile telling me he knows that we’re both just dancing around the real reason he’s here. His brown eyes darken, and I lick my lips.

“Sure.”

I take my time pouring the wine, taking pleasure in the anticipation buzzing in the room. When I turn back to look at Gael, he’s watching me, leaning against the desk near the window. His brown hair is cropped short, and my mind unexpectedly goes to Huxley and his shorn blue hair.

I bat the thought away as soon as it appears.

“Here.” I hand him the glass with a smile.

His eyes are penetrating when he takes it from me, his fingers grazing against mine.

“Thanks.”

I move to distance myself, but he hooks his arm around my waist, pulling me between his open legs. Enjoying that he’s taking charge, I let out a husky laugh and wrap my arms around his neck.

“What about your wine?” I say playfully.

His free hand slips under my tank top, smooth fingers trailing up my spine. I shiver alongside the charged anticipation. He keeps our gaze locked, a flirty smile on his lips as he takes a slow sip, then carefully places it on the desk.

“I think you’ll taste better.”

He catches my lips with his, the tart wine still cold on his tongue. I moan into his mouth, and he pulls me closer to him. The kiss deepens, and the urgency of our desires skyrockets.

He pushes away from the desk while bringing his hands under my ass, and I jump into his arms, my legs hooking around his waist.

As he blindly leads us to the bed, our kiss turns desperate before he drops me onto the mattress. He follows me down, bracketing me with his body as one of his hands finds my breast and squeezes. I arch my back, moaning in response.

And for a while, I forget everything.

I numb myself with pleasure and push away the harsh facts of reality in exchange for lackluster orgasms and one-night stands.