The best time to talk to Mark alone will be before breakfast. Before anyone else is up, really. He doesn’t want anyone else to know.
The clock on his bedside table reads a little after six. It’s early but to Peter, who tossed all night long, it feels late. Quickly he showers and gets dressed—T-shirt, jeans, socks, even shoes. He feels like he’s pulling on armor with each item of clothing, shielding himself against Mark and whatever power his friend might have over him.
None, he reminds himself. I’m not like that. I don’t like him, okay? I don’t.
Then why the butterflies in his stomach? Why the sweaty palms or the pounding heart at the thought of a disheveled Mark answering the door to his room dressed in boxers and little else?
I’m not. Taking a deep breath, Peter pockets his keycard a
