I shook my head, muttering to myself, feeling so stupid for overreacting.

He handed me a cup. “Let’s forget this and have a nice dinner, eh?”

Trying my best attempt at a genuine smile, I said, “That sounds good.”

We sat across from each other at the small table in my room as we ate in silence. Chance had ordered three entrees from an Italian restaurant: eggplant lasagna, chicken parmesan and pasta primavera.

He poured wine into the two paper cups. “I know it’s a lot of food, but I figured he’d want to eat as well,” he said, placing a plate of food on the ground for Esmerelda Snowflake.

The tension in the air never let up all throughout dinner. I just kept pouring more Chardonnay to numb my feelings.

Chance went straight back to his room after we cleaned up. That left me feeling empty and confused, like maybe I’d freaked him out with my crying episode. Having had too much wine, I lay on my bed and stared up at the ceiling, which seemed to be slightly spinning. With my buzz granting me false courage, I got up and opened the adjoining door.

The shower was running while the goat waited outside the closed bathroom door. Lying down on Chance’s bed, I curled into the thick down-feathered pillow. When he emerged from the bathroom, he stopped short of the bed. He was wrapped in nothing but a white towel. His thick hair was wet and slicked back. Droplets of water slowly ran down his chest. So overcome with pent up desire, I licked my lips. My heart was beating out of my chest.

“What are you doing in here, Aubrey?”

I sat up suddenly. “Do you not want me here?”

He closed his eyes briefly then said, “It’s late. I think it’s better if you go back to your room.”

That was not like him.

My stomach dropped. Humiliated couldn’t even begin to describe how I felt as I said, “Oh. Yeah. You’re right. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

He just stood there, towering over me with his large hands gripping his sides as I walked past him.

I returned to my room alone, tossing and turning as I ruminated over why all of a sudden he’d turned cold. Chance had sent me so many signals today that he wanted me. We’d opened up to each other. We’d laughed. He’d told me I was pretty. Maybe I misread everything. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe he was attracted to me but didn’t really want me for himself. Maybe the crying freaked him out. I was more confused than ever. The only thing that seemed certain: by the end of this trip, I was going to end up hurt.

Chapter Seven

The next morning was awkward, but not the type of exciting awkward we’d encountered yesterday in the tent. I’d slept like crap, and last night’s rejection that left me feeling sad had morphed into anger. We sat at a Waffle House filled with truckers and retirees. I stirred my coffee and let the spoon clank loudly on the table.

“Everything okay, Princess?”

“Fine.” I avoided eye contact and stared out the window as I sipped my coffee. It was bitter…and so was I.

Chance leaned back against the booth and splayed his arms along the top of the seat. “I may not be an expert in women, but I know enough about them to know that fine means definitely not fucking fine.”

“Well, apparently you don’t know me. Because fine means fine.”

He ignored me and continued with his analysis of one simple word. “And the speed at which the fine is delivered is directly proportional to the level of pissed off.” He drank his coffee and tipped the mug in my direction. “And your fine came pretty damn quick.”

The waitress interrupted as we glared at each other. “Everything okay here?”

“Fine,” I snapped. My response came so fast and sharp, the waitress was taken aback.

“Sorry. It’s her time of the month, and she gets like this.” He shrugged, and the waitress looked at him apologetically. I think she actually felt sorry for him.

I waited until she walked away. “Could you not do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make up stories about me.”

“I’m not sure it actually was a made up story. You’re quite the fucking bitch this morning. Maybe that’s your problem. Is it your time of the month, Aubrey? Is that what’s bothering you?”

“I’m not a bitch and no…that’s not what’s bothering me.”

“So you admit something is bothering you then?”

“What is this, a deposition? Are you a lawyer now? I thought you were an ass model.”

Chance glared at me; I glared right back. At least I’d sufficiently pissed him off enough to shut him up for the rest of our meal. We ate in unhappy silence and then Chance took the goat for a walk before we started back on the road.