Not once.
Fine,I think, striking the keys on my laptop a little too hard.We'll see about that.
By the time we land in San Francisco, the sky's almost dark. The limo waiting for us at the private terminal is long enough to seat the entire roster with room to spare, and I follow behind Darcy as we all pile in.
"Okay, I take it back," Beck announces, sprawling across the leather bench seat at the back. "Thisis the good life. Forget the mansion. I want to live in this car."
"You'd have to get out eventually," Mason points out. "For, like, food."
"Did you not see the mini-fridge, Mason?!"
I giggle to myself as the limo glides through the city, past glittering high-rises and strings of lights draped across the bridges, and I sip a champagne flute that appeared in my hand approximately four seconds after I sat down.
As always, my eyes find their way to the one place they shouldn't.
Declan's wedged between Corbin and the window, phone in his hand, thumb scrolling without actually reading anything on the screen.
I keep waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Just look at me. Tell me it meant something.
But the whole drive, I get nothing.
We pull up outside the hotel where a doorman is already moving toward the car before it fully stops. Beck is still buzzing with excitement, and I catch Darcy watching him carefully.
The whole team spills out into the lobby in a wave of gear bags and noise, and I hear Sawyer and Max loudly asking if there's a pool.
"Room keys," Tyler announces, a container in his hand, working his way down the group like a very stressed campcounselor. "Beck, you're with Mason, third floor. Finn, you're with Corbin, second floor. Corbin, please, for the love of God, donotlet him drink your minibar into oblivion again—"
"That happenedonce—"
"Coach, fourth floor, Darcy, you're on six. Josie—" he flips a page, "—you're on eight. Separate floor, since PR gets the corner suite for content shooting."
Of course I do.One more floor away from the one person I actually want to see.
Declan's a few feet away, gear bag over one shoulder, and for just a second, our eyes finally catch.
He looks tired. Not the just-flew-across-the-country kind. The other kind. The dark kind that sits behind someone's eyes for days and doesn't lift.
Maybe if he stopped staring at the fucking phone in his hand he might give his eyes a rest.
I can't help but watch as Declan's thumb keeps moving across his screen—typing, deleting, then typing again. He glances up, catches me watching, then looks away fast, shoving the phone into his pocket like I caught him at something.
What is hehiding?
"Room seven-eleven," Tyler says to him, and Declan just nods, murmurs a thanks, and turns for the elevator bank without another word to anyone.
Not even me.
Okay.I press my lips together and grab my key card from Tyler's outstretched hand.That's it. If this man doesn't start using his words on this trip, I don't care if I have to corner him in a stairwell and physically shake the truth out of him.
Or possibly seduce it out of him. On my knees. Doing the thing I've been craving for days.
Oh God, Josie. Not now.
I ride the elevator up to the eighth floor alone, key card gripped in my fist, replaying every single interaction we've had over the past week like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.
The elevator dings and I step out into a hallway, find my door, and swipe the key card.