Page 26 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

Silas

If I’ve learned nothing else about Jules today, I’ve learned one thing: Adrenaline agrees with her.

All the way back to the hotel, she’s been a flutter of excitement, reliving the freefall and every second of the incredible view during our ride back to earth.

I can’t take my eyes off her, and I don’t know which is more thrilling — the adventure we’ve just had, or watching her relive it all over again right next to me.

I’ve missed this. Doing things with someone I actually care about.

But by the time we arrive back at the hotel, the adrenaline has started to wear thin.

She grows quiet as we walk toward the elevator that’ll take us up to our penthouse suite.

I do my best to keep her talking, but her answers become shorter, more clipped and strained with each passing second.

When I unlock the suite for us, she’s silent all over again.

Take what you can get , I remind myself as we walk in, especially if it means seeing little glimpses of the old Jules screaming back to life like she did today.

She sets her purse down on a table when I shut us both inside.

“I had Monica make us reservations at the lounge downstairs,” I tell her, slowly, praying she won’t just retreat back into her bedroom again for the rest of the night.

“They have a patio that overlooks the view and a little birdie told me that the sunset there is absolutely surreal. I thought we’d start there and then—”

“I may just order room service again,” she interrupts, kicking her shoes off one by one.

Then she paces around the room until she finds the slippers she left beside the television console this morning.

She quickly slips her feet into them, looking absolutely drained.

I’m not even sure if it’s the adrenaline crash or jet lag taking hold of her right now, maybe both.

Of course, it may very well be something deeper, maybe something she read in the letter yesterday that she’s just now remembering again as we return back to this space, but she raises a brow at me and crosses her arms, like she’s waiting for a response.

“Room service?” I repeat, staring at her like I couldn’t possibly have heard her right.

I get that she’s probably tired, but she can’t be serious.

We’re in one of the most beautiful places in the entire world.

It would be an absolute sin to sit in here wasting another evening with a wedge of lettuce sitting under another silver dome.

She purses her lips and lifts her face a fraction of an inch, not speaking yet, but the message is clear. My heart begins to pound a warning in my chest that I already know I’m going to ignore.

“Yes, I think I’ll order in. Do you have an issue with that or something?” she asks.

Definitely a challenge.

Fuck.

I’ve known enough women over the years to know that this sudden change in her attitude, paired with a not-so-subtle hint to debate about something as insignificant as ordering room service, is not about her ordering room service at all.

And it’s not about me challenging her to come out with me instead.

There’s a proverbial wet towel on the bed, and she wants to talk about it.

I should just let her retreat to her room. Let her win this one because clearly arguing with her in this moment is going to lead to a much bigger conversation than what our dinner plans ought to be.

But I don’t do a lot of things that I should do.

And I’m not really one to let wet towels rot on the bed.

“You’re in Interlaken, Switzerland, for the first time in your life — possibly the only time in your life — and you’re going to order room service for the second night in a row?

” I ask, pushing a smile onto my face, hoping to soften the nudge.

I’m opening a door that I might regret. But I also know that if we’re going to stop this whole surly cat-and-mouse game we’ve been playing since I picked her up at her townhouse back in Boston, it might very well have to happen by walking through whatever deep shit I’m stepping into right now.

“At the very least, go out to dinner at the restaurant alone. Without me if you don’t want to be in my company.

That’s fine. But don’t stay holed up in your room eating a hunk of rabbit food again.

Have just a little more respect for Grant than that. ”

Her eyes narrow to burn little holes into mine.

“What the fuck?” she spits out. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I shouldn’t have added that last bit about Grant, but instead of taking it back, I dig my heels in.

“He didn’t send us around the world to sit in a bedroom eating dinner off a TV tray, Jules, and you know it.”

“Be that as it may, I’m fine ordering in,” she says gruffly, but she doesn’t move from her spot on the carpet. Nor does she make any movement toward the room phone to order food. Instead, she blinks at me once. Then twice. Then practically taps her foot at me to say something back.

Here we go.

“You may be totally fine about it. But not everything is about being fine . It’s about taking advantage of where your feet are planted.

Today. Right now,” I tell her calmly. Then I slip off my jacket and lay it across the back of a nearby chair.

“And you just so happen to be planted in some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Grant would have a heart attack if he knew you came all this way to go lock yourself in a padded room.”

“What do you mean? It’s not padded.”

“Well it may as well be, considering the inhabitant’s state of mind right now.”

She laughs, though the normally melodic sound of it is laced with something more ugly. For the second time, I regret pushing us into this conversation.

“Well, Si, lucky for you and me, neither of us have to worry about giving Grant a heart attack over my dinner choices now, do we? Although you would know that more than anyone.”

She places her hands on her hips and glares at me. I respond by kicking off my shoes.

“What does that even mean?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she shifts her weight and re-crosses her arms without moving her eyes off me. I tilt my chin down and eye her, prodding her silently. Another standoff I’m not going to let her win.

“What?” she asks, angrily.

I cross my arms, matching her stance.

“You tell me, Jules. I came back here feeling like I was living on cloud nine. You did, too, if you’ve forgotten. Now you seem to have lost all interest in having an easy night that matches the excitement of our dive today. You tell me what .”

“Have you ever considered the part you played . . .” she starts, but then she drops her hands and shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t know if I even want to go there right now. Or ever.”

I sit down on the chair closest to her, hoping the subtly submissive gesture cools some of the lava bubbling up between us.

The silence is deafening. Instead of backing off like I should, I poke the bear.

“The part I played in what , Jules? You’ve been pissed off at me since you got Grant’s first letter back home in Boston.

Monica told me you wanted to fly around the world with a fake death certificate of mine, just to get Grant’s letters without having to be anywhere near me.

I know you haven’t really enjoyed my company since I lost my dad, but this ?

Frankly, I’m a little shocked by the level of hatred here.

It seems pretty intense for a few stupid mistakes I made back in our mid-twenties.

I get that this sucks. Hell, everything about this situation is about as bad as it gets, but can’t we just put a cap on all that and try to enjoy ourselves? ”

“You aren’t having any trouble enjoying any of this,” she says, waving her arms around the room. “Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

“If sharing this suite was a bad idea I can just go tell the front desk to move my luggage to the other room on my way down to enjoy that dinner reservation by myself. We’re leaving in the morning anyway, so I can—”

“No, this isn’t about that,” she interrupts, looking even more frustrated.

I puff out a sigh and lean back, feeling like she’s got me tied in a knot I can’t get out of.

“Then what? Get it out in the open. It’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?” I eye her, wishing she realized that none of this is easy for me either.

She’s seething now, rising up on her toes, opening her mouth to reply, as if she can hardly contain what she’s about to say. Then she takes a deep breath and rocks back on her heels, leaning in toward me before speaking again. This time her voice is low and eerily controlled.

“Don’t you find it just a little bit ironic, maybe even self-serving, that you’re sitting here halfway across the world, sharing a hotel suite with your dead best friend’s fiancée — making fancy dinner reservations to take me out for God’s sake — when it was your building that fucking killed him?”