9. FINN
Chapter nine
FINN
The Whitcomb Hotel rises over the block in all its old San Francisco glory.
I park out front, and a valet opens Bailey’s door before I can get there. She steps out looking a little tired from the drive, a little tense from the room situation, and still entirely too pretty for my concentration.
“Welcome to the Whitcomb,” the valet says.
“Thank you,” Bailey says.
I come around the front with her suitcase in one hand and my garment bag hooked over my shoulder.
She reaches for her bag. “I can take that.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that like it’s an answer.”
“It is. Just not the one you want.”
She gives me a look.
I smile because I like her looks. The annoyed ones. The amused ones. The ones that say she’s two seconds from calling me on my bullshit.
The lobby is impressive. Marble floors. Tall windows. A bar tucked off to the side with low lighting and expensive-looking bottles behind the glass. Even a pianist near the far wall, because apparently, this hotel looked at subtle wealth and decided it needed a soundtrack.
I turn and watch Bailey’s reaction.
She takes in the room like she’s already mapping the exits, the front desk, the wedding signs, the elevators, and every possible place this weekend could go sideways.
All I can think is that I want to make one thing easier for her.
Dangerous thought.
I slow beside her. “This place is fancy.”
“I warned you.”
“You said fancy. You did not say I would need to polish my shoes.”
“I’m sure whatever shoes you brought will be fine.”
“They are definitely not up to the standards of this place.”
She bites back a smile. “Try to look confident, and no one will notice.”
“That’s one of my more marketable qualities.”
“Along with coffee and snacks?”
“And showing up in a suit.”
“Pending review.”
My mouth curves. “Can’t wait.”
Her eyes flick to me for half a second, then away.
I feel that look more than I should.
We cross to the front desk, where a woman with sleek hair and a professional smile greets us.
“Welcome to the Whitcomb. Checking in?”
“Yes,” Bailey says. “Reservation under Bailey Sutton.”
I stand beside her, close enough to be present, not close enough to crowd her. Her bag rests near my feet. She has one hand on the strap of her purse, the other loose at her side, but I can see the tension in her fingers.
She’s nervous.
Not falling apart. Bailey doesn’t strike me as someone who falls apart in public. She holds everything together so neatly that people probably forget how much she’s carrying.
The clerk types for a few seconds, then smiles. “Yes, Ms. Sutton. I have you here for two nights, checking out Sunday. One room with two queen beds.”
“That’s right,” Bailey says. “And we need to add a second room, if possible.”
The clerk starts typing again.
A pause.
More typing.
Bailey goes very still beside me.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk says. “We’re fully committed for tonight.”
“Fully committed,” I repeat.
Bailey glances at me.
The clerk keeps her professional smile. “We have the Sutton-Clarke wedding, two corporate events, and a conference this weekend. I’m afraid we don’t have any additional rooms available.”
“Okay,” Bailey says, with the exact tone of a woman trying very hard not to lose her mind in a lobby. “What about tomorrow night?”
The clerk checks again. “Unfortunately, tomorrow is also sold out.”
Of course it is.
Because that would be too easy.
Because I apparently agreed to be Bailey Sutton’s wedding backup, forgot to book a hotel room, and have now helped create the kind of forced-proximity disaster that sounds fun in theory and terrifying when the woman beside me has every reason to expect me to act like an adult.
Which I can do.
Bailey inhales slowly through her nose.
I lean slightly toward the desk. “Any chance another guest cancels?”
“We can add a note to the reservation and call you if anything opens,” the clerk says. “But I wouldn’t want to promise anything.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
Bailey looks at me like she expected a joke and doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I’m not giving her one.
I’m tempted. I have at least three ready, but none of them would help, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Could you also check if there are any partner hotels nearby with availability?” I ask.
“Of course.”
The clerk checks, makes one call, then gives us the answer neither of us wants. Nothing close. Nothing reasonable. One suite available across town with one king bed and a nightly rate that makes me blink, which is not a solution I can afford.
Bailey rubs two fingers against her forehead.
“We’ll take the room she has,” I say quietly.
Bailey turns to me.
“With the two beds,” I add, because the clerk is pretending not to understand the situation, but she absolutely does.
Bailey straightens. “Yes. The room is fine.”
Fine.
Sure.
The clerk processes the check-in, gives us two key cards, and explains the elevators, the rehearsal dinner location, and breakfast hours. Bailey nods in all the right places, but I’m not convinced she hears half of it.
I take the key cards because her hand is tense enough that I’m mildly concerned she might snap them in half, and we need at least one to open the door.
“Thank you,” I say to the clerk.
“My pleasure. Enjoy your stay.”
We move away from the desk in silence.
Not angry silence. Not even awkward silence, exactly.
Just aware.
One room.
Two beds.
Bailey Sutton, who smells like vanilla latte, soft perfume, and the kind of trouble a man should have the sense to avoid.
And me, who apparently left my common sense somewhere on Highway 101.
I hand her one key card. “You okay?”
“I’m excellent.”
I look at her.
She exhales. “I’m okay.”
We stop near the elevators while a family passes behind us, two kids in dress clothes arguing over whose shoes hurt more. Somewhere near the bar, someone laughs loudly enough to bounce off the marble.
The world keeps moving like it has no idea my self-control just got handed a weekend-long assignment.
I shift Bailey’s suitcase in my hand. “We still have two beds.”
“Yes.”
“And doors that lock.”
“Obviously.”
“And I can sleep fully clothed on top of the comforter if that helps.”
She looks at me.
I keep my expression serious for as long as I can.
Her mouth twitches first.
Victory.
“That won’t be necessary,” she says.
“Good. I wasn’t looking forward to that level of commitment.”
Her smile slips through. Small, but real.
The elevator dings.
Neither of us moves.
The joke fades, and the thing underneath it waits right where we left it.
I look at her. Really look.
“Bailey.”
Her attention lifts to mine.
“I know this isn’t what we planned,” I say. “But I’m not going to make it weird.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
I nod. “Then I’ll say this too. You’re in charge. If you want me to find another place farther out, I will. If you want me to sleep somewhere else, I’ll figure it out. If you want the bed by the window, it’s yours. No argument.”
She goes quiet.
Bailey should not be surprised by a man giving her room to choose.
“The room has two beds,” she says.
“It does.”
“We’re adults.”
“Technically.”
“Finn.”
“I’m agreeing.”
“You’re smirking.”
I wipe the expression off my face. Poorly. “Sorry. I’m agreeing.”
She shakes her head, but some of the tightness leaves her shoulders.
“The room will be fine,” she says.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I wait a second longer because the yes comes fast, and Bailey strikes me as someone who gives the responsible answer first.
Her gaze holds mine.
“I’m sure,” she says.
The elevator doors start to close, and I catch them with one hand.
“Then after you, Sutton.”
She steps inside, and I follow.
The mirrored walls give me a perfect view of Bailey standing beside me, key card in one hand, chin lifted like this is all completely manageable.
Maybe it is.
Maybe we’re two adults sharing a room with two beds for one weekend.
Maybe I can sit through a rehearsal dinner, wear a suit, keep my hands to myself, and remember all the reasons Bailey Sutton is not a woman I can turn into another bad decision.
Then she glances at me in the elevator reflection.
Just once.
Quick. Careful. Enough to make every reasonable thought I have go quiet.
The elevator dings on seven, and the doors slide open.
Bailey steps out first.
I follow her down the hall, carrying both bags, pretending I’m not aware of every quiet step she takes ahead of me. The hallway is all soft carpet, gold wall sconces, and thick silence. The kind of silence that makes a man very aware he is about to walk into a hotel room with a woman.
Bailey stops outside the room and taps the key card against the lock.
The room is nice. Cream walls, heavy curtains, city view, one dresser, one bathroom, a small sitting area, and two queen beds with a nightstand between them.
Bailey steps inside and looks at the beds. I watch her take them in, watch her shoulders loosen by maybe half an inch.
“Two beds,” she says.
“Two beds.”
She glances at me. “Why do you sound like you’re trying not to laugh?”
“Sorry. Completely serious.”
I set her suitcase near the bed by the window, then hang my garment bag in the closet. “Window bed is yours.”
“You don’t have to keep giving me first pick of everything.”
I look at her. “I know.”
“I’m going to change for dinner,” she says, grabbing a dress from her bag.
“Bathroom’s all yours.”
She disappears behind the door, and the room goes quiet.
I stand there for a second, hands on my hips, staring at the two beds like they’re supposed to explain the rules.
Friends only.
No making it weird.
Separate rooms.
One out of three is already dead.
I drag a hand through my hair and look toward the bathroom door.
This weekend is going to kill me.