Chapter 13 #3
I'm starting to dread the version of my life that's waiting on the other side of this. The one where I'm back in my father's orbit, back in the plan, back to being the person who has everything mapped out and nothing that feels like tonight.
That scares me more than anything, because wanting things to last is how you get hurt. I know this. I've designed my entire romantic life around avoiding it.
Wild Isabelle would like to remind Rational Isabelle that we could just... see what happens. That not everything has to be planned. That maybe the box isn't as safe as I think it is, maybe it's just small.
Rational Isabelle points out that Wild Isabelle has been drinking and cannot be trusted with major life decisions.
Wild Isabelle suggests that Rational Isabelle is boring and should try having fun for once in her uptight little life.
This internal argument is getting out of hand. I need to cut myself off from the alcohol.
"You okay?" Alex says, glancing over at me. "You got quiet."
"I'm fine," I say, and I smile, and the smile is real even though the fine is absolutely not. "Just catching my breath."
He nods and bumps my shoulder with his, light and easy and casual, and the touch lands like a brand even through two layers of clothing.
The headliner finally takes the stage to massive applause. The crowd pushes forward, and in the shuffle Alex and I end up pressed closer, shoulder to shoulder, his arm warm against mine.
I should move. I should create space. I should do anything except stand here soaking up his warmth like a plant turning toward the sun.
"There has to be some sort of solution," I say, trying to keep my voice pleasant even though what I really want to do is put my head down on this very nice marble counter and sleep for twelve hours.
The hotel receptionist keeps clicking through her computer system, her expression shifting from apologetic to confused to deeply concerned. "I'm so sorry, I'm just not seeing where the error occurred in our booking system. Let me try refreshing..."
We're at the Huntington Hotel in San Francisco, which is gorgeous, with restored Art Deco elegance and the kind of quiet luxury that whispers old money. Mia, Jack, and Lark already headed up to their rooms.
Alex had volunteered to go park the car and grab both our overnight bags from the trunk, so I'd decided to check us in and get the keys. Simple. Easy. Except apparently the hotel made some sort of error and when Alex booked two rooms, they somehow only logged one.
One room. One king bed.
Of course. Because the universe has decided that tonight is the night it's going to test exactly how much self-control I have left, and the answer is rapidly approaching zero.
"I'm so sorry," the receptionist says again, and she genuinely does look distressed.
"I'm looking at the reservation history and I can see exactly where the error occurred in our system when the booking was entered.
We're fully booked tonight for a medical conference, so we don't have another room available.
But I can absolutely try to get you accommodated at our sister property across town. It's lovely, just opened last year..."
I suppress a groan. Across town will take at least forty-five minutes by the time we get back in the car, drive there, check in again, and find the room.
It's one in the morning. I'm exhausted and I'm wearing shoes that seemed like a good idea eight hours ago and are now instruments of medieval torture.
"No, the king room is fine," I hear myself say, watching my last shred of good judgment pack its bags and leave. "We'll make it work. We're adults."
The receptionist looks visibly relieved. "Are you absolutely sure? Because I really can call over to the Prescott and get you set up there within the hour..."
"I'm sure," I say, even though I am the opposite of sure. "It's late, we're tired, it's fine."
She processes something on her computer, typing quickly, then produces two key cards and slides them across the counter. "You're in room 807. Eighth floor, turn left out of the elevators. Again, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience."
"It's not your fault," I say, taking the keys, and I mean it. It's not her fault the universe is conspiring against my self-control.
I turn to see Alex coming through the lobby doors, both overnight bags slung over one shoulder, whistling something under his breath. He spots me and grins.
"Hey," I say, walking over to meet him. "So there's a slight issue."
"How slight?" he asks, adjusting the bags.
I explain the situation—the booking error, the sold-out hotel, our options. He listens, his expression unreadable for a moment, and then lets out a low laugh.
"Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "I mean, what are the odds? Of course this would happen tonight."
"Right?" I say, and I find myself smiling, despite everything. "The universe has a twisted sense of humor."
"A twisted one," he agrees. "Well, don't worry. I'll sleep on the floor, there's probably extra pillows. I've slept in worse places."
"You don't have to sleep on the floor," I start to say, then realize how that sounds and course-correct immediately. "I mean, the floor in a hotel like this is probably clean but still weird. You could just... we could put pillows between us? Like a middle school sleepover?"
He grins. "Relax, I don’t mind the floor. Gentleman, remember?"
"I'm going to push you into the elevator," I say, but I'm smiling.
We head toward the elevators and the whole ride up is silent except for some truly terrible jazz playing through the speakers.
We're standing on opposite sides of the elevator car, a solid four feet of space between us, both studiously looking at the numbers ticking up.
Fifth floor. Sixth floor. Seventh floor.
We are two adults who can share a room for one night without it being weird. People do this all the time. Colleagues traveling for work. Friends who missed the last train. Perfectly normal, perfectly platonic room-sharing.
Wild Isabelle would like to point out that there is nothing platonic about the way he looked at me on that dance floor.
Rational Isabelle tells Wild Isabelle to shut the hell up and focus on survival.
The elevator dings for the eighth floor and we step out into a hallway with plush carpet and warm lighting. I lead the way to 807, sliding the key card and pushing the door open.
The room is gorgeous. More than gorgeous, actually—it's objectively luxurious. There's a king bed in the center and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city lights, all of San Francisco spread out below us.
I drop my overnight bag on the luggage rack and head straight for the bathroom, needing a minute to myself, needing to splash cold water on my face and have a stern conversation with myself in the mirror.
The bathroom has marble everywhere and those little luxury toiletries that you want to steal even though you know you shouldn't. I turn on the cold water and splash my face, careful not to completely destroy what's left of my makeup, then look at myself in the mirror.
My lipstick is long gone. My cheeks are flushed from dancing and drinking and being near him for the last six hours.
"Get it together," I whisper to my reflection. "You can share a room with him for one night. You have self-control. You are a professional. You are not going to do anything stupid."
My reflection looks deeply unconvinced.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and walk back out into the room.
Alex has laid out the extra pillows and the throw blanket from the armchair on the floor beside the bed, making himself a little nest that actually looks reasonably comfortable. He's sitting there checking his phone, and he glances up when I emerge.
The tension in the room shifts immediately.
I know he wants to sleep with me again. I can see it in the way he looks at me, in the way his eyes track my movement across the room. I know I want to sleep with him again. In fact I want it so badly I can barely think about anything else.
"Well," I say, trying to sound like my heart isn't pounding. "Goodnight."
He blinks. "Goodnight?"
"Goodnight," I confirm, and walk over to the bed, pulling back the covers on the far side—the side closest to the window and farthest from where he's set up camp on the floor.
Responsible Isabelle wins this round. Maybe there's hope for my self-control after all.
I climb into bed and reach over to click off the bedside lamp. The room plunges into semi-darkness, the glow from the city lights outside providing the only illumination.
There's a rustling sound as he settles into his makeshift bed on the floor, and then silence. The kind of silence that gets louder the longer it goes on. The kind that makes you hyperaware of every breath, every movement, every sound.
I can hear him breathing. I can hear the faint sounds of traffic from the street below. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
This is going to be a very long night.
"Isabelle?" Alex's voice cuts through the darkness after what feels like an hour but is probably only five minutes.
"Yes?"
"Thanks for coming to San Francisco today. I had a really good time."
I swallow. "Me too."
"Even the dancing?"
"Especially the dancing," I admit.
More silence. More breathing. More being extremely aware that he's ten feet away from me in the dark.
"Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"Go to sleep."
He laughs quietly. "Yes, chef."
I close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep, to not think about him on the floor, to not think about how easy it would be to just invite him up here, to not think about what would happen if I did.
Rational Isabelle is hanging on by a thread.