Nick half expected—hoped—Abbey would be at the hotel when the taxi dropped him off. But she wasn't. She wasn't in the foyer and she wasn't in his suite.
It was frustrating. She was frustrating. He didn't understand her. One minute she wanted him, the next she was shrugging him off.
He turned on the shower and stood under the running water. It was cleansing, washing away the salt, the sand, Abbey.
But it didn't wash away the image of her face, her cheeky grin and her pouting, kissable lips.
What had happened in the water today? She'd been so keen, then so cold. He could almost see her mind ticking over, weighing something up, digesting.
Did she not believe him when he said he was sorry? Did she think that he still thought she was a hooker?
Nick placed his hands against the cool blue tiles and bent his head forward. The water rushed down his neck, his spine, soothing—much like Abbey's fingers had done on the first night she'd entered his room.
