Page 88 of Rhodes

The seventh stair is the one that groans, so I skip it, my foot going straight from the sixth to the eighth. I turn the lock to the front door behind me and pad down the hall to my room barefoot.

Libba's door is shut. She won't stir for another few hours. If she comes down to find me, I'll be here, no need for made-up stories about falling asleep on the bench or whatever else I might need to come up with.

I drop onto my own bed and lie back and let myself feel it. My mouth's a little raw. There's a good ache low in me, all of it Rhodes.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Rhodes.

You make it back safely?

I grin at the ceiling and thumb back, my heart still fluttering.

Lonely in my bed... But I'm here.

Same. Libba asleep?

Dead to the world. You're safe. Your reputation as a gentleman is intact.

That ship sailed.

Heat runs down the back of my neck. I press the phone to my chest and laugh into the quiet, then bring it back up.

Whose fault was that?

Yours. You started it.

I finished it too, if I remember right.

Three dots come and go and come back, and I picture him lying in his bed with one hand behind his head while he holds the phone with the other.

Sleep tight, Tallulah.

There's nothing tight about me right now, except maybe the buzz going through my body. I'm nearly vibrating off my bed, wondering how I will find sleep.

I heart his text and put my phone on the nightstand. It's been a good night.

The boat cuts a clean line up the coast, cliffs going up green and gold on our right, water so blue it looks fake. The engine hums below us, vibrating the floor. Wade has one hand on the wheel and the other around a beer he keeps forgetting about. Birdie's stretched out on the bow with her sunglasses on and her face tipped straight up at the sun like she's charging in it.

There are seven of us. That's the whole crew now. The group has been shrinking a little each day, and this morning Banksie and Daddy flew out at the crack of dawn. Reeves and Charli are heading for the private airport later.

We fly home tomorrow afternoon.

Six days ago, Rhodes was still the guy sleeping down the hall from me. Now I know what he looks like when he's trying not to touch me in front of people, what his mouth tastes like after espresso, and exactly how long he can keep his hands to himself before one of us gives up.

None of that belongs in New Orleans. At least, that has been the agreement.

Italy ends, we go home, and Rhodes goes back to being my brother's best friend and roommate, while I go back to pretending I don't know what his hands feel like under my shirt.

Simple.

I run my hand through my hair and look toward the back of the boat. Rhodes is already looking at me. He reaches into the cooler and brings me a sparkling water with a lime already wedged in the neck. I didn't ask. He just knows, the way he's known all week, the same way he knew this morning I'd want espresso before I wanted food.

"Thanks," I say and crack it open.

He’s good at this, that’s all it is. You sleep with a man for a few days, and suddenly he learns your order and starts anticipating what you want before you ask. That isn’t romance. That’s a man doing what he needs to do to keep getting his needs met.

Libba drops down beside me with a glass of something pink and fizzy.

"You want a sip? It's a mocktail."