Olivia Westview
The elevator ride to my hotel room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the soft hum of the machinery.
I leaned against the cool metal wall, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as if that might somehow fill the growing ache in me. James’s words replayed in my mind: “I have to step out for a bit. You go ahead and retire for the day. I’ll meet you later.”
His tone had been warm, reassuring even, but that didn’t stop the hollow feeling that crept in as soon as the meeting ended and he walked off in the opposite direction. The rational part of me knew he had things to handle—business, obligations, whatever it was that kept him constantly in motion. But the irrational part, the one still drunk in the way his lips felt on mine just hours ago, hated the space now separating us.
