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CHAPTER FOUR

ELENA

It’s a short drive from my childhood home to the hotel where the wedding will take place. Jake and I pass the time getting caught up on each other’s lives. He asks how I’m liking Boston and which dance companies are at the top of my list for after I graduate. I ask about his fight training.

Apparently, Jake’s had to cut back since he took a job in private security. His boss is the new alpha of the Red Feather Lake pack near Fort Collins and works security for other high-ranking wolf shifters.

It’s a little hard for me to imagine Jake putting on a suit and going to work for this security firm, but it sounds as though he enjoys it.

We pull up in the circle drive of a swanky hotel, and Jake drums his fingers on the steering wheel. The SUV in front of us is a sleek Mercedes, and all the other vehicles are later-model luxury cars.

A valet appears to park Jake’s Jeep, and a crease knits his brow. I’m not sure if he just doesn’t like the thought of parting with his precious Jeep or if he’s feeling self-conscious.

I certainly feel underdressed as we waltz into the lobby. A giant vase of lilies is situated inside the tall glass doors, and the whole place smells expensive.

“Good afternoon,” says an elegant woman behind the front desk. “Checking in?”

“Yes.”

Jake follows me over to her, toting my suitcase, garment bag, his backpack, and a second garment bag that must contain his clothes for the wedding.

He turned down the valet’s offer to have the bags brought up to our room, but now I’m worried that schlepping all our stuff through the fancy lobby makes us stick out like a sore thumb.

“We’re here for the Rodriguez-Blanski wedding.”

“Ah, yes,” says the woman, smiling warmly.

“Reservations for Elena Cabrera Garcia and Jake Carson.”

The woman’s fingers clatter over the keyboard. “Yes, I have the reservation for Mr. Carson right here.”

I smile and shift my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. I know Raf called and paid for Jake’s room, but it still feels weird.

The woman prints out something for Jake to sign and then types my name in. “Cabrera Garcia, Cabrera Garcia . . .”

“You might check under ‘Garcia,’” I say, trying to be helpful.

The woman grimaces and then glances to her left before leaning forward over the desk.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have a note in my system that says my manager did try to contact you.

” She lowers her voice to just above a whisper.

“ Your card was declined when we tried to place the hold for your room. Since we were unable to reach you, we could not hold that reservation.”

My throat goes suddenly very dry, and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. I vaguely remember getting a few calls from a number I didn’t recognize, but I assumed they were spam calls.

“I am so sorry,” I murmur. “Let me just —” My fingers fumble for my wallet, but I stop with my credit card halfway out.

Before I left Boston, I took my car to the shop for a funny little shimmy it did whenever I tried to accelerate, and I’d just charged twenty-five hundred dollars worth of repairs on this card.

My stomach sinks. My credit-card limit is three thousand, and I use this card to pay for groceries and gas. It’s practically maxed out.

“Just a sec,” I say, my bottom lip quivering as I stare at the other cards in my wallet.

I work two part-time jobs at dance studios in the city to pay my expenses, but it’s nearly the end of the month. I have exactly forty-seven dollars in my bank account, so giving her my debit card is out of the question.

I’m about to make some excuse to leave so I can figure out my next step, but Jake’s warm, rough fingers encircle my wrist. “It’s all right,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

His tone is light and easy — as though it’s no big deal. He knows why I’m hesitating, and he’s offering to cover my room.

Now I really want to die.

“Here,” he says, handing over his card before I have a chance to object .

The woman’s eyes crinkle with sympathy as she opens her mouth, and my dread compounds. “Unfortunately, we are fully booked this weekend. We simply don’t have any open rooms.”

My mouth falls open, and I want to cry. This really can’t get any worse.

“It looks like we have you in a king room, Mr. Carson,” she says brightly. “So the two of you should have plenty of room.”

The blood drains from my face. “But we can’t —”

“Great,” says Jake, cutting me off and smiling at the woman. He taps the edge of his key card on the counter once, sticks it in his pocket, and then scoops up our garment bags as he heads toward the elevator.

Horrified and at a loss for words, I turn and run after him.

“Jake, wait,” I say as the elevator opens. “This is silly. We don’t need to share a room. I’ll just call and make a reservation at another hotel.”

Never mind that I’ll have to call Raf and ask him to book it. I know he won’t mind — my brother is loaded — but I try never to ask him for anything.

Jake shakes his head and punches a button. “Nah. Raf asked me to keep an eye on you. How am I supposed to do that if you’re at another hotel?”

“Then we’ll both get rooms somewhere else,” I say, feeling suddenly desperate.

“Why?” asks Jake. “The wedding is here. You’re the maid of honor. Carmen’ll want you close.”

I grit my teeth and rack my brain for some other argument. Damn Jake and his valid points .

“Besides . . . I trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

I open my mouth in indignation, but then I remember that Jake offered to pay for my room.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For trying to help me back there. Please don’t tell Raf.”

He shakes his head as if to say he would never tell my brother. “Consider it forgotten.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, and the elevator doors slide open.

“I know it’s none of my business, but I’m surprised Raf hasn’t, uh . . .” Jake trails off, squinting as though he’s trying to come up with a tactful way to say it.

“Set me up so I never have to work another day in my life?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t think he hasn’t tried.”

Jake’s eyes flicker in my direction, but his expression is unreadable. While Jake, Raf, and I all had similar hand-to-mouth upbringings, my brother’s grades and test scores were good enough to secure a full-ride scholarship to Stanford.

While other students drank and partied their undergraduate years away, Raf studied like a maniac and built his data-mining company from the ground up.

He sold the business in an eight-figure deal and used the money to launch his next endeavor, which made him a billionaire at the age of twenty-seven.

“I don’t want Raf’s money,” I say quietly as we pad down the elegant hallway toward our room. “Raf’s spent enough on me for one lifetime.”

Jake seems to be waiting for me to elaborate, so I take a deep breath and continue.

“Carmen’s ex was uninsured at the time of the accident, and the cops determined it was his fault.

No payout. Mamá was fighting with our insurance over every little thing, so Raf paid for my medical expenses out of pocket.

He paid for my surgeries, the rehab center, PT, in-home care .

. .” I shake my head. “I’m not taking any more of his money. ”

“I get it,” says Jake.

“You do ?” I try not to publicize the fact that I’m Rafael Cabrera Garcia’s little sister, but people always seem to find out. Most people I’ve met in Boston think I’m crazy for not wanting Raf’s money — especially when it’s so hard to make ends meet as a dancer.

Jake nods. “Sometimes owing someone makes you feel like you can’t go against their wishes. I get wanting to be your own person.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. Of course Jake gets it. He knows Rafael better than anyone.

“But you should know that Raf didn’t care about the money,” he adds. “He was a mess when you were in recovery. I doubt he has any idea how much he even spent.”

Jake rummages in his back pocket for the key card, and I open my mouth to ask how he knows what Raf was like when I was recovering from the accident. Raf had me transferred to Chicago to the best TBI rehab center in the country shortly after I was diagnosed. Jake was here in Colorado.

But before I can get the words out, the keypad blinks, and Jake throws open the door to our room.

I suck in a breath as the huge canopy bed comes into view.

It’s draped in crisp white linens and seems to dominate the entire room.

The walls are painted a hue of deep yellow that’s not quite goldenrod and not quite mustard.

Sunlight streams in through tall French doors, which housekeeping left cracked for a bit of fresh air.

The light breeze stirs the gauzy white canopy, and I exhale slowly.

It’s both luxurious and cozy — perfect if Jake and I were here on some romantic getaway. Instead, I’m supposed to platonically share a bed with my brother’s best friend who brutally rejected me on my birthday.

I have the worst luck.

Jake’s low whistle tickles my ears as he wheels my suitcase into the room. He hangs our garment bags in the closet, then crosses to the bed and bounces on the edge of the mattress. “Nice.”

It’s ridiculous, but being cooped up in this romantic room with Jake is just too much. I have to get out of here.

“I’m going to the pool,” I announce, turning toward my suitcase so Jake can’t see how flustered I am.

I came to Carmen’s wedding to have fun and celebrate my best friend’s big day. I’m not about to let this thing with Jake ruin the whole weekend.

I grab my bikini and storm into the bathroom as Jake turns on the TV. I dress quickly and run a hand through my hair, belatedly realizing that I left my coverup in my suitcase.

Feeling self-conscious, I slide back into the room and grab my coverup. Jake’s gaze burns through my skin as I turn to leave.

“A swim sounds nice,” he says, making me jump. “I . . . think I’ll join you.”