And when he passes over the water to me and I lift the bottle to my mouth, he takes the opportunity to slide his hand over my stomach, stroking back and forth, eyes closed and forehead pressed against my shoulder.
“I had fun,” he says quietly. “I’m so glad you remembered me.”
It is both wonderful and terrible when he says this. Wonderful because I know he means it; terrible, because—of course—this is how the goodbye starts.
“Me too,” I say. “Really. I don’t want to get too intense, but it’s been a shitty year, and I needed this.”
“For maybe different reasons, I needed it, too.” He pauses, frowning. “But I just want to say—”
Oh God.
“Alec.” I turn to smile at him, hiding the way my chest immediately tightens at this tonal shift. “You don’t have to say it. You live in London. I’m in LA. I have no expectation of seeing you again.”
“No, no. Well, yes, that is—unfortunately—probably true, but I meant something else.” He gazes down at me. “This will sound weird, and you’ll understand it later, I think, but I mean it when I agree this was exactly what I needed. And I’m just—” He swallows, neck flushing. It’s weird to see him stumble over words. “I’m really happy to be here with you. Exactly how it was last night. Whatever happens after this, I want you to promise to remember that. Okay?”
Even a cold brick would realize that Alec Kim is saying something without saying it, but it’s so carefully veiled I don’t know how to probe deeper. He doesn’t give me a chance, either, because he cups my jaw, offering up a kiss that is both sweet and passionate, gently coaxing me back onto the pillow.
“I wish we had time,” he says against my mouth, and I know exactly what he means.
But we don’t.
He stares down at me, exhaling, and then with a quiet groan pushes up and turns to sit at the edge of the bed. I want to roll over and wrap my arms around him because, oddly, it seems like he needs a hug, but it doesn’t feel like something we’d do at sunrise. So I sit there staring at his back while he stares down at the floor. All of the ease and comfort of last night have started to fade, and I quietly hate it.
We both startle when the room phone rings, and then Alec lets out a mumbled “Oh” of recollection. Leaning over, he answers it with an instinctive “Yeoboseyo,” and then, “Hello… Yes, thank you. Let’s say fifteen. Thank you.”
He hangs up and looks over his shoulder at me. “If you’d like, you can use the restroom right there to get ready.” He lifts his chin to indicate where he means. “The concierge is bringing something up for me and will be here in about fifteen minutes. I’ll shower in the other restroom.”
The outside world is pressing back in, making us both adopt a level of formality that feels completely unnatural. Thanking him, I hold the sheet to my chest and avert my eyes as he stands fully naked, finding his clothes on the floor and carrying them out into the living room with him. With a towel around his waist, he returns just as I’m getting up, bringing me my suitcase, bra, and dress. I want to kiss him in thanks; it’s what every cell in my body is leaning forward to do, but he just gives a polite nod and ducks back out. In only a few seconds, I hear another door close farther out in the suite and the sound of the shower turning on.
Staring down at my open suitcase on the bed, I decide the dress is still the cleanest thing to wear, and then debate the underwear situation. I could wash a pair in the sink and wear them—damp—on the plane. I could go without. I don’t like either of these choices. This is a problem for post-shower Georgia. But after rinsing off quickly and wrapping myself up in one of the hotel’s lush, thick towels, I hear a quiet knock land on the bathroom door. I open it, letting Alec in.
He’s clean and dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans, hair neatly combed, and with soft stubble on his chin. Instantly, my libido stands up, waving the white flag. He misses my ogling gaze because he’s staring at where my towel is tucked closed between my breasts. A drop of water runs down my neck and he looks like he’s considering licking it. My ego logs this moment for the mental scrapbook.
“Do you know what a thirst trap is?” I ask him.
He jerks his attention up to my face and I think takes a second to translate this in his head. “I’m thirty-three, not eighty. Yes, I do.”
I point at his chest. “Lethal.”
He laughs. “Is that right?”