Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

“ W e need to find you a new name.”

“I’m sorry?” Carter says, faltering in his steps.

“Carter’s just not personal enough,” I say as we pass a beaver tails stand that smells so good it makes my stomach grumble, even after the amazing poutine dinner we just had. “And you don’t seem to like Andrew.” There was no missing how he winced every time his brother called him that. “Hence, you need a new name.”

“Carter’s fine,” he says, not even bothering to turn my way. He’s been on a mission since this morning to show me every part of the city, and while I’m tired from having walked a million miles, it’s been fun to have him as a guide.

Today was the first time since we started this leg of the tour that we had a day off, either from shows or from recording sessions—apparently, Carter wasn’t lying when he said inspiration had struck—and when he walked up to my bed this morning and asked if I wanted to have a tour of Montreal, I almost hit my head against the top bunk from how excited I was. We haven’t had time to visit much in between stops, only a few hours here and there, so I wouldn’t have given up on that opportunity.

He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d show me around. In a single day, we’ve gone to almost all the big attractions the town has to offer, tasting delicious foods and seeing a city that’s both modern and from another era.

I close an eye. “Drew?”

Carter doesn’t answer, keeping his stride toward the hotel we’re staying in tonight before tomorrow’s show. Being able to have some privacy and take a shower in a real bathroom for the first time in days will be a treat.

“Andy?”

When he turns toward me at that, I’m already grinning. The sun is slowly starting to set, creating a halo of golden light around his frame.

“No.”

“You’re boring,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder.

“Deal with it.”

“I think I’ll stick with Andy.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

Riling him up truly is my favorite sport.

“How far are we from the hotel?” My shoulders are burnt to a crisp and I can’t wait to spend an hour under a cold jet and bathe in aloe. Who knew summer days in the city could be so brutal?

“Almost there.”

The hotel isn’t our next stop, though. Two minutes later, I grab Carter’s arm, pausing in front of one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen, an ancient monument smack dab between two skyscrapers. The way the end-of-day sunlight catches the stone walls and statues, drenching them in orange and marigold all the while ricocheting from the windowpanes of neighboring buildings, takes my breath away.

Even with the hand on his arm, Carter continues walking as he follows the traffic, hundreds of workers crossing the street as they walk back home, and I have to pull on his shirt to make him realize I’ve stopped.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Forcing you to enjoy the moment for a second.”

I expect him to grumble, but somehow, he doesn’t, simply standing next to me facing this scene that could be a painting.

“You’re alive. Take it all in,” I say, closing my eyes at the warmth caressing my cheeks, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass while the sound of children playing and someone strumming their guitar in the park nearby fills my ears. I focus on the feel of Carter’s shoulder brushing my skin, on the thrum of my heart in my chest, on the tickle of the blades of grass against my sandals. A moment like this, so perfect, so fragile, is worth a thousand bad ones. I want him to feel it too. To see how lucky we are, how our own lives can feel like movie scenes despite it all.

When I finally reopen my eyes, I don’t know how much time has passed. What I do know is that light is lower in the sky than it was before, and Carter’s gaze is hotter on me than the sun ever was.

“Okay, we can go now,” I say, my voice steadier than how I’m feeling .

He doesn’t move right away, his hazels studying me, and when they dip to my lips, even for only a second, I feel it everywhere . I remember the taste of his lips, the way he sounded when he kissed me, like he could never get enough. How heavenly the heat of his body felt under mine.

Focus . It was a mistake. We both said so.

I clear my throat, and when I resume our trek toward the hotel, I feel him following me.

At the next red light, I stretch one of my ankles that’s been screaming at me to stop for a while.

Carter catches it. “Sorry I pushed you around all day.” He scratches his cheek. “Wanted you to see it all.”

“I loved it,” I say, not even lying. Other than Boston and one time in Salt Lake City with Finn, I’ve never explored another city. It was worth all the cramps. “How did you know so much about the place?”

The pedestrian sign turns green, so we follow the mass of people across the intersection. “Montreal’s a good music scene. My parents traveled here a few times for work, and we tagged along.”

I hum. “Did you like it?”

“Nah.” He turns to me, squinting against the fading light. “Today was all right, though.”

I grin.

We’re not far from the hotel, only a few more blocks until we reach the entrance of the chic-looking building. Carter opens the door for me, allowing me a whiff of his scent—I need to know whether it’s his deodorant or his shampoo I have to blame for all those tingly feelings I get every time I get a hit—and once we’re in, someone calls, “Cart! Lil!”

“Cart?” I whisper against Carter’s arm as we turn to find Ethan hollering for us from the lobby bar.

“Forget it,” Carter mutters.

“Hey,” I tell Ethan once we join him. “Had a good day off?”

“Yeah, yeah… Look, there’s been a fuckup.”

“What kind of fuckup?” Carter says.

“Bill, the tour manager, he didn’t know you’d be there when he booked the rooms, and anyway, you’re supposed to be married, so…”

“So we only got one room,” I finish for him.

“Right. And I checked, but the hotel’s full. Some kind of music festival happening this weekend.”

“Check again,” Carter grunts.

I roll my eyes at his lovely mood, putting a hand on his arm as I tell Ethan, “It’s fine.” It’s not like we have much of a choice anyway. I wish Carter didn’t have to react like being in the same room as me is the equivalent of going on Survivor and sleeping naked in a tent made of branches, but I won’t change him overnight.

“Sorry, guys,” Ethan says as he gives me the keys, but his apologetic eyes are on Carter.

“It’s okay, really.” When I turn to my husband and find him with a tight jaw, I tell him, “It’s only for one night. Calm your horses.”

He doesn’t say anything as he picks our bags up from where we’d left them this morning, and then we’re in the elevator, a thick silence enveloping us. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s not the end of the world. In fact, even if the tour manager had known Carter would be there, we couldn’t have asked for two rooms. It would’ve blown our cover.

I shouldn’t be surprised to see the single king bed in the room once we open the door either, but surprised I am.

Carter must’ve expected it because he doesn’t react to it. He walks in and drops his things on the small love seat in the corner of the room. “I’ll sleep here.”

“Come on,” I say, taking a seat on the plush bed. “The bed’s big enough for both of us.”

His gaze is dark when he looks up.

“We’re grown adults. We can share a bed,” I tell him, but I almost sound like I’m trying to convince myself.

He glances at the bed for a long, long moment, then turns to his bag and grabs a few toiletries. “Wanna jump in the shower first?”

“Go ahead,” I say.

I lay a hand on the bed, the covers silky smooth. This is going to be fine. I can control myself.

The mantra becomes a little harder to believe when Carter comes out of the shower ten minutes later, steam billowing behind him, his hair still wet, chest on almost full display as he steps through the room in black boxer briefs and a damp white shirt that hugs every single line of his body.

I stop breathing.

I try to look anywhere but at the delicate water droplets running down the tight column of his neck or at the shadow of hair on his stomach that reminds me of our time in my bedroom, where I got to feel it, even briefly. My entire body becomes aflame as I fail to tear my eyes away, tracing the contour of his narrow hips with my gaze. Even when he catches me staring, I’m frozen in place. What’s worse, he doesn’t move away as if…as if he wants me to keep looking.

“All right, my turn,” I say after clearing my throat and forcing myself to look at my toes. I’m careful not to brush him as I walk over to the bathroom, but it doesn’t matter; the damage is done. As I turn the shower on and wash my hair, I can only think of Carter being naked here a few minutes ago, and I’m hot and bothered all over again. This was a bad idea. I should’ve let him be grumpy and ask for separate rooms, no matter what.

It’s stupid. We’ve shared a bathroom before. We’ve shared a house for months. And yet this feels so much more intimate. Like there’s no escaping each other.

Once I’m done and have dried myself, I put on the PJs I brought with me and immediately regret them. They’re a set of tiny shorts and tank top, which was fine when I was alone in my bunk, but not so much when I’m sharing a room with the guy I’m supposed to pretend I feel nothing toward. It’s even worse when I walk out of the bathroom and the AC hits me with the force of a blizzard, sending shivers down my arms as my nipples tighten under my tight top.

Fuck me.

I cross my arms to cover myself the best I can and make my way toward the bed, jumping under the covers. Carter’s now wearing a hoodie, thank God, so for that, I’ll forgive the fact that he’s not wearing pants over his boxers—who knew calves could be so freaking erotic? All those lines of tight muscle… He’s seated on the edge of the bed as if ready to jump at the first chance.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.”

I don’t miss the double take he does when he sees me, and I’ve never regretted my choice of clothes this much before, especially with how freaking cold it is here.

Carter’s gaze traces my bare arms for a second longer before he gets up and goes to mess with the things in his bag. I pull out my phone and start messing with some of the pictures I took today. Some will make for great content.

“Here.”

I look up to find Carter holding out a sweater. It’s one I’ve seen him wear to sleep a few times, black with an almost erased printed logo, and I always thought it looked comfortable.

I slowly take it, running my fingers over the overwashed material that’s become soft from its thinness. Then I lift a brow at him.

“You’re always cold,” he says casually as if this is the most normal thing in the world. The human body is made of 206 bones. The Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776. Lilianne DiLorenzo always gets cold.

“What?” he says, probably wondering why I’m looking at him like he’s grown another head, and it might be the shadows playing tricks on my eyes, but I’d swear pink colors his cheeks.

He needs to stop. If I want this stupid infatuation to disappear so I can make it out of this fake marriage alive, he can’t continue being this thoughtful. I’m starting to fantasize about things I have no business wishing for.

But I must be a real dummy because I still put on his sweater, knowing damn well I’ll never want to take it off. His smell envelops me like a crisp early spring morning, and yes, this is definitely mine now.

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” he says, then stands there, staring at me while I pull my hair out of the neck of the sweater and settle back in bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, still not moving.

I open the covers on the other side of the bed. “Stop acting like a prudish seventeenth-century woman and just get into bed already.” When he still doesn’t budge, I add, “I won’t jump you, don’t worry.”

He mutters something unintelligible as he finally gets into bed, keeping as much distance as physically possible.

I must stink. Or maybe he does think I’ll get all over him if he gets too close. Am I that threatening?

I spend the next hour working while Carter pulls out his sudoku book like an eighty-five-year-old and finally seems to relax. Then, when 10:00 p.m. hits, my phone vibrates, a pill emoji appearing on the screen.

I get up and grab all the medication I need to take at night while attempting to make the least amount of noise possible, then I walk back to bed, where my water bottle is waiting.

“You ready for bed?” I ask .

“Yeah,” Carter says, putting his book on the bedside table, and then I turn the lights off. I take advantage of the complete darkness before our eyes have gotten used to it to swallow all my pills in one go, then gulp a few sips of water and join Carter in bed.

“Why do you hide?” comes his gruff voice a few seconds later.

I turn to my side. “Huh?”

“Your pills. Why’d you hide them?”

Why do I always forget this man is more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for?

“I didn’t hide,” I lie. “I just don’t boast about taking them.”

Movement comes from my side, and the bed dips as if he’s now facing me too. “Waiting until it’s dark to take them feels a lot like hiding.”

“What are you, the pill police?”

He doesn’t answer, only shifts closer as if he knows his silence is even more poignant than a question, and damn him, it works.

“It’s not something I like to talk about, that’s all.” With my followers, sure. It’s what started my channel, after all. Talking about my journey through illness and interacting with people who have gone through similar hardships. But with the people close to me, I try to keep it as silent as possible, even when I wish I could share my concerns with someone else.

“Why?” Even with the loud AC, I hear the rustle of the sheets as he moves closer as if he wants to be close enough to see all it is I’m not saying .

“Because I learned it’s not what people want to listen to.” I hate the rasp in my voice at that small sentence that’s such a feat of vulnerability.

There were times after my transplant when I felt ill and was worried I might be rejecting my new kidney, and I preferred absorbing this anxiety than sharing it with others, even those I trusted the most. I didn’t want to be their sick friend, or their sick granddaughter, or their sick colleague. I only ever wanted to be Lilianne.

“Someone hurt you,” he says, not a question but a statement.

“I… What…”

“You mentioned the other day how you wanted someone who could actually love you. Meaning someone hurt you before.”

I swallow. It doesn’t hurt anymore to think about Greg as a person, but it does hurt to think of all the years I wasted with him, watching everything I said, the way I breathed, everything not to make him notice another thing that might be wrong about me. I saw the way he looked at the bruises on my arms from being poked, saw how he tried his hardest to pretend that I wasn’t sick. So I did too.

“Maybe,” I say, to both his previous questions.

After a long time where I almost wonder if Carter fell asleep, he says, “It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“I know.” In theory, I do know this, but old habits die hard and all that.

“I don’t want you to hide the next time.” Again, not a question or a suggestion, but a statement. Straight through, just like him. “Okay? ”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m serious.” Suddenly, a hand lands on my waist, so warm even through the sweatshirt. I don’t think he even realizes where he’s touching me, his expression so focused. “You’re a survivor. Own it.”

My nose tingles, and I breathe deeply to keep myself under control.

“What about you?” I ask, wanting to change the subject before I burst into tears or worse. “Anyone important in your past?”

Now that I’ve gotten used to the darkness, I can see the shake of his head.

“Not one?”

Another head shake. “Never been a relationship guy.”

I’m not sure I want to explore whatever that means, so instead, I say, “So you decided to skip the girlfriends stage and go straight to being married.”

“Wasn’t such a bad idea,” he answers, and before I have the time to react to the lack of humor in his answer, the little tease has the gall to nudge me with his feet under the covers. I startle.

“Jumpy, are we?”

“You keep those feet to yourself, Andy.” The truth is, I am jumpy. Having him this close to me, barely covered, his scent targeting every single one of my olfactory nerves so I can’t smell anything but him… It’s temptation incarnate.

He groans. “I’ll sleep with my feet all over you if you continue with these stupid nicknames.” For good measure, he hooks his legs over mine .

I push him away, which only makes him press harder. I laugh, bringing the covers higher up to hide my grin behind. “I was wrong about us being able to share a bed, apparently,” I say.

It’s as if my words are a magnifying glass that makes both of us realize just how close we’ve gotten. He might’ve started off at the other end of the bed, but our legs are now tangled, the soft hairs of his calves— don’t think about his calves —brushing against my shaven ones. His hand still rests on my waist, and when his fingers flex, even a little, I shiver. Our heads rest on neighboring pillows, turned to face the other, breaths mingling in the middle.

Carter’s gaze travels across my face, and when it lands on my lips like it did earlier, I almost beg him to kiss me, consequences be damned. So what if I fall for someone who only wants my body? So what, when that man is him?

His hand glides down my body at a torturous pace as if the pads of his fingers need to memorize every inch of me. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, his expression lost in another dimension. Goose bumps cover my waist, then my thighs, where his fingers caress my skin before stopping at the bottom edge of my pajama shorts.

On an inhale, my lips part, and just as I move to shatter this never-ending wait and kiss him, it’s as if a light turns on in his head. First, his hand lets go of me like I’m a burning object, and then he scoots away and turns on his back so he’s facing the ceiling. I follow the bob of his throat that looks almost painful. “Don’t worry,” he says after an eternity. “I’ll behave. ”

I remain where I was, both hoping he’ll come back and thanking him for being stronger than me.

“Good night, Lilianne.”

After a breath, I flip to my back too, our bodies now separated by enough space that I can trust myself again. “Good night, Carter.”

I don’t fall asleep for a long, long time.