Hating the Book Boyfriend (Book Boyfriend Builders)

5. Colton

CHAPTER 5

Colton

W e've been sitting in the hotel bar for hours. I made sure she had enough to eat. I pay attention to details. I can't help it. That's how I knew she ordered the cheapest thing on the menu as soon as she placed her order. The second the waiter asked me what I wanted, I ordered every appetizer they offered. Her eyes widened, and I shrugged and said, "I can't decide. You can help me eat it." The girl I knew, the one I still see every time she allows our eyes to connect, is still the same strong-willed, stubborn farm girl with blonde braids and cowgirl boots. Always boots. It's why I knew questioning her order was pointless. She would never admit to wanting more food or having money constraints, though I don't believe money is an issue. If anything, I assumed she was trying to order something quick believing I might try to deceive her and head back to the room without her. But that was four hours ago, and we're still here. The silence hasn't been easy, but sitting here with her is better than sitting behind closed doors alone with her, so I've endured.

"Did you want to go back to the room?"

I can't help but quirk a brow at the timing of her question. I pull my attention away from the snow outside the window and back to her. "I'm surprised you remembered I was sitting at the table." While we ate, she thumbed through her phone, and when I ordered a drink, instead of asking for the check, she opened her laptop. Her head has been in it ever since.

"I assumed this was a working lunch. I didn't realize you wanted to socialize," she says before sipping her Diet Coke.

"Oh, here I thought words were exchanged when you buy someone a meal…" I reach for my glass. "Good manners and whatnot."

Her eyebrows rise before she reaches into her satchel, and I realize my comment didn't land as intended. "I didn't realize the check had already come. I thought you were still drinking." She pulls out her wallet.

"Don't. You're not paying for this meal, Posey."

"The hell I'm not. You just said I owe you small talk in exchange for my soup…" She puts a fifty on the table. "Look, we don't have to pretend we like each other. My offer to split the room with you still stands as well."

I anxiously tap my thumb against my thigh. I'm not an anxious person. I can't tell you the last time someone got under my skin. Maybe it's because I simply don't care, or it's that I've mastered the art of not engaging in things that shouldn't bother me, the ones that most get hung up on, but right now, none of that is true. She's the itch I shouldn't scratch; the poisonous kind that will undoubtedly spread, but I do.

"Can we call a truce for one night and tomorrow, you can go back to hating me?"

Those were the last words I should have given her. She might be strong enough to resist me, but the question is, am I able to resist her? The specs of gold in her eyes reflect the snow outside as she searches my face, looking for a lie or a trick because that's what she's been accustomed to getting from me for almost as long as I've known her. I say almost because for one day, I knew her first. For one day, Archer Estes wasn't my best friend, and for one day, it was her and me; we were too young to be anything more than just two kids sitting on a bench beside the lake, but for that afternoon, I didn't have a reason to be her nothing.

She rolls her lips before folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. "Okay."

"Okay?" I repeat slowly. I can tell she's not sold on the authenticity of my ask, so I reach into my pocket, pull out the spare room key, and slide it across the table. "It's not a joke, Posey."

I take my finger off the card, leaving it in front of her on the table, and watch as her eyes stay glued to it. I don't like being the guy she doesn't trust. I know I made myself her foe. I just hadn't realized how deep the roots of her hate ran.

"If it's not a joke and you really want a truce, how about you start by calling me by my actual name?" Her eyes raise to mine, and she quirks a brow in challenge.

I always knew she didn't like the nickname, after all, the circumstances surrounding the incident where it was coined weren't her best moments, but the nickname doesn't have the same negative ring to it for me as it does her. Tongue in cheek, I consider telling her why I started calling her that to lower her walls, but then I think better of it. I'm already giving her too much.

I see the waiter start to head our way, noticing my glass needs to be filled. I polish off the remaining amber liquid before saying, "Would you like a drink, Josephine?"

Her eyes narrow slightly before she concedes. "Sure." She leans back in her chair. "You are paying after all."

My lips curve slightly at her cheekiness. "Now that who's footing the bill has been settled and a truce has been called, do you care to share what it is that you do that's demanded your undivided attention all afternoon?"

There's a subtle rise in her eyebrows before she shifts in her seat. My question is discomforting. I don't know if it's because I'm the one who's asking or because her work is a sore subject. "I'm a freelance public relations consultant?—"

Whatever more she was about to say is silenced as a guy cuts in out of nowhere, placing a flyer down on the table. I'm as aggravated with the disruption as I am grateful. If she's in public relations, I'm sure she saw my recent scandal in the headlines, and that's a subject I don't care to discuss.

"Sandman is holding a competition. The winner takes home three thousand cash," he says hastily before moving on to the next table.

She snatches up the flyer and starts reading it as the guy walks off, and the waiter asks, "Would you like another?"

Her eyes are zeroed in on the paper, and the waiter and I have ceased to exist. "Josephine, what would you like to drink?"

"I'll have water, please."

"I offered to buy you a drink, and you ordered water."

She dismissively waves her hand at me before starting to close her computer. "Never mind the water…" she says, getting out of her chair and packing up her stuff. “I have a competition to win."

"You can't be serious?" I question before picking up the flyer to read it for myself. "Polar plunge!" I'm out of my chair. "After what happened this morning, this challenge is the last thing you should be doing. You're not doing it."

She clasps her bag, and her eyes find mine, her expression bemused when she asks, "Are you feeling okay?"

"What?" I throw back exasperatedly, still stuck on the fact that she's even considering this.

"You must have lost your mind if you think you can tell me what to do. You're not my brother. Hell, you're not even a friend." That last line stings more than it should, but I've earned that from her. Then, swiping up the key card, she flashes it at me and adds, "Plus, I have a key now, so you can't blackmail me out of it." She tosses her bag over her shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a polar plunge to win."

I quickly flip open my wallet and hand the waiter my card. "Close my tab. I'll be back for my card," I say before rounding the table to catch up to her. "Josephine, wait up." I don't know why I even bothered to call after her. I knew she wouldn't wait. She continues down the hallway, but I've caught up. "Slow down, track star. I could have rephrased what I said back there, but I haven't lost my mind. If anyone's sanity is to be questioned, it's yours. You're the one who wants to jump into ice water in twenty-degree weather."

She stops dead in her tracks, catching me off guard, and I bump into her before reaching out to grab her arm, ensuring I don't take her out. "If this is supposed to be an apology, you're doing a crap job at it, and I don't need it." She shrugs my arm off hers with a scowl. "Just go back to the room, Colton. You don't have to watch. I have a key, and I can let myself in. This is actually perfect. You didn't want me in your space to begin with. For the next hour or so, I won't be." Before I have a chance to respond, she's turning on her heel.

"That's not happening," I say, following after her. "I can't, in good conscience, go back to the room knowing you're down here being completely reckless. Your brother would kill me if he knew I were here and let you get hurt, and I'd never forgive myself."

She pushes through the double doors to the courtyard, and the cold air immediately chills my entire body. It's cold as fuck out here. I forgot how cold Colorado can get, and it's not even winter yet. "Better watch it, Callahan. You're starting to sound like you give a fuck, and we both know that's not true."

I should let it go, but I can't. I snag the sleeve of her coat. Her face snaps to mine, annoyance written all over it. "Hate is a feeling, too. Just because we don't talk doesn't mean I don't care."

Her eyes hold mine for seconds, long enough to make my stomach subtly twist with the thinly veiled truth I just laid at her feet. For the short moments, it feels like she sees things that I can't even articulate, for they are things I've never felt, and she is the last person I should feel them from. However, knowing I shouldn't want them doesn't change that I think I do. If anything, it makes me want it more, especially if it means those pretty eyes stay on mine a little longer.

"You sound like you need a therapist." A loud voice can be heard in the distance, and she turns toward the sound. "I don't have time for whatever this is. It feels like a distraction." Once again, she starts to walk. "If you want to care, be my guest, but you can do it as an onlooker because you can't stop me."

I don't say anymore as I follow her to the event location. It's already taking every ounce of restraint I have not to haul her over my shoulder and carry her back to the room, and all the words I want to give her would only garner more hate or unravel all that I've built. Neither are doors I'm interested in opening.

When I see the spot everyone is gathered around, all I can think is, this has to be one big lawsuit waiting to happen. People are congregating around the water feature in the center of the courtyard. It runs the length of the west wing. It can't be more than three or four feet deep, but it is part of the hotel's property. I can't believe management hasn't shut it down. The majority of the crowd is made up of women, most of whom have their phones pulled out. That's when I see who they're aimed at. A man is standing on the stone ledge above the water dressed in a dark velvet blue cloak.

"Can you believe it's really him?" I hear someone say.

"I'd let Sandman do more than put me to sleep," another girl quips. I can't help but look on, completely mystified. You can't even see the guy's face. How could she possibly know that she wants that?

"Josephine, have you heard of this guy?" I ask, only to look to my left and see she's gone. Shit.