1. Claire #2
He hangs up before I can answer. I order an Uber with shaking hands and slide into the back when it shows up, my tablet balanced on my lap while I frantically search.
Sold out. Sold out. Sold out.
The drive takes forever, traffic crawling through snow that's coming down harder now. The whole Midwest is shutting down. On the radio, Bing Crosby is crooning about white Christmases, and the irony is almost funny.
I finally find something when we're ten minutes out. The Parkside Inn, some boutique hotel near the airport. One room available—their honeymoon suite just became available due to a cancellation.
Their. Honeymoon. Suite.
I stare at the listing. There's definitely only one bed in a honeymoon suite. Probably a massive one. Probably covered in rose petals or some shit.
My phone rings again.
"Did you find something?" Garth demands.
"Maybe. The Parkside Inn has one room, but—"
"Book it. I'm at the airport. Terminal Three."
"It's the—"
"Just book it, Claire."
Claire. Not Ms. Abbott. He only uses my first name when he's stressed or pissed or both.
I book it before I can overthink, my fingers flying across the screen. Confirmation comes through right as we pull up to Terminal Three. I spot Garth immediately—kind of impossible to miss him, tall and commanding in his perfect coat, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other.
I pay the driver and stumble out with my roller bag. Garth's eyes land on me, and for just a second, something flickers across his face. Then it's gone.
"Did you get it?" he asks.
"Yeah. The Parkside Inn. About ten minutes from here."
He nods, already pulling up a car service. Around us, the terminal is pure chaos—families with screaming kids, pissed-off travelers arguing with gate agents, constant announcements about cancellations. "Jingle Bell Rock" plays over the PA system, tinny and incongruous with the collective misery.
"Do you know what kind of room it is?" he asks, still staring at his phone.
Here we go.
"It's... it's the honeymoon suite. It just became available—last minute cancellation."
His fingers stop moving. He looks up at me and I feel pinned.
"It's the only option," I add quickly. "Everything else is completely booked. If we don't want it, I can—"
"We'll take it." His voice is flat. "It's one night. We're adults."
We're adults. Right. Adults who have to share a honeymoon suite on Christmas Eve.
This is fine. Everything's fine.
The car shows up, all sleek and black, and Garth holds the door for me—the only gentlemanly thing he's done all day. I slide in, suddenly aware of how small the space is, of his thigh inches from mine when he settles in next to me.
The driver pulls away and I watch Chicago disappear into the snow. Garth's on his phone immediately, typing with those sharp, efficient movements. Work, probably. Always work.
I pull out my phone and start on the Hartwell contracts because that's what I do. Work. Make myself useful. Make myself indispensable to a man who treats me like very expensive office equipment.
The Parkside Inn appears through the snow like something from a movie—stone facade, warm lights in every window, actual wreaths on the doors.
Through the windows, I can see a fire burning in what must be the lobby.
It's charming and romantic and literally the worst possible place for me to spend Christmas Eve with the man I'm in love with who barely tolerates me.
"Let me handle check-in," Garth says as we walk into the cozy lobby.
And cozy is the right word. There's a real fire crackling in the stone fireplace, garlands wrapped around the banisters, the smell of cinnamon and pine thick in the air. Soft Christmas jazz plays and there are couples everywhere, laughing and drinking mulled wine from a station in the corner.
It's perfect.
It's torture.
I hang back while he talks to the young woman at the desk. She's smiling at him—everyone smiles at Garth when he's using his business charm. It's only with me that he keeps the mask on 24/7.
"Ah yes, the honeymoon suite!" Her smile gets even bigger. "You're so lucky—we just had a cancellation this afternoon. It's our most romantic room."
Oh God.
Garth's shoulders tense slightly. "Actually, we're not—"
"It has the best view of the courtyard," she continues, oblivious. "And we've already prepared it with champagne, chocolates, rose petals on the bed... the full experience. You two are going to love it."
"We're colleagues," Garth says firmly. "We just need somewhere to sleep."
The clerk's smile falters into confusion as she looks between us—him in his expensive suit, me significantly younger, both of us clearly uncomfortable. I can see her trying to figure out what's going on.
"Oh. I... of course." She clears her throat. "Well, we can certainly remove the rose petals if you'd like, but the champagne and chocolates are already—"
"It's fine," Garth cuts her off. "Do you have a cot we can bring up?"
Her confusion deepens. "A cot? For the honeymoon suite?
" She clicks through her computer. "I'm so sorry, sir, but we're completely out.
With all the flight cancellations, we've had to bring in every spare bed we have.
The suite has a king bed, though, so there should be plenty of space for.
.." She trails off, clearly realizing that's not helpful.
Garth's jaw tightens. "Fine. Thank you."
He turns back to me, handing me a key card without meeting my eyes. "Let's go."
I want to die. Actually die. The desk clerk is still watching us with this mix of confusion and pity, probably thinking we're the saddest almost-couple she's ever seen.
We ride the elevator to the third floor in painful silence. I can feel the awkwardness radiating off both of us. The honeymoon suite. With rose petals on the bed. This is a nightmare.
The doors open and Garth leads the way to room 304. He unlocks it with the key card and I follow him inside.
And oh my God.
It's a massive king-sized bed with white linens and—yep, there they are—red rose petals scattered across it in the shape of a heart.
Champagne on ice on the dresser next to a box of fancy chocolates.
Candles everywhere (unlit, thank God). The window looks out over a courtyard where snow's piling up on a frozen fountain, and there are twinkling lights strung everywhere making everything glow soft and golden.
There's even a bottle of massage oil on the nightstand.
I'm going to die. This is how I die.
"This is fine," Garth says, setting his briefcase down with a decisive thud. His voice is completely flat, but I can see a muscle ticking in his jaw. He's lying. We both know it. But he's Garth Rhodes, and if he decides something's fine, then it's fine, reality and rose petals be damned.
"I should send those contracts," I say, because work is safe. Work is what we do.
"Later." He's already taking off his coat, loosening his tie. "Order room service. We need to eat."
I pull out my phone, finding the hotel's menu, trying really hard not to watch him unbutton his collar. Trying not to think about spending the next twelve hours trapped in this room with him.
Trying not to hope.
Because hope, I've learned the hard way, is the most dangerous thing of all.
"What do you want?" I ask, eyes glued to my screen.
There's a pause—long enough that I look up.
Garth's watching me with this expression I can't read, something dark and complicated in those grey eyes.
"Whatever you're having," he says finally. "You choose."
And somehow, those three words— you choose —feel more intimate than anything he's ever said to me.
I order way too much food because that's safer than thinking about the bed. About the champagne. About the massage oil I'm pretending I didn't see. About the fact that Garth Rhodes just told me to choose something for the first time in fourteen months.
About the fact that there's no cot coming. Just one massive bed covered in rose petals that we're apparently going to have to share.
"I can sleep on the floor," I blurt out.
Garth looks up from where he's unpacking his laptop. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I don't mind, really. I can just—"
"Claire." His voice is firm. "You're not sleeping on the floor. Neither am I. It's a king bed. We're adults. We can share it without..." He trails off, jaw tight.
Without what? Without touching? Without wanting to?
"Okay," I say quietly, because what else can I say?
The silence stretches between us, thick and awkward. Outside, snow keeps falling.
I should say something. Ask about work, maybe. Keep things professional. But all I can think about is that bed, those rose petals, and the fact that in a few hours, I'm going to be lying next to Garth Rhodes in a honeymoon suite on Christmas Eve.
And he'll still have no idea that I'm in love with him.
Room service arrives twenty minutes later—steak, roasted vegetables, some kind of fancy potato situation that smells incredible, and a chocolate dessert that looks like art. We eat at the small table by the window, mostly in silence, watching the snow come down harder.
"This is good," I say, because someone needs to fill the quiet.
"Mmm."
That's it. That's all I get.
I go back to my food, trying not to feel the weight of everything unsaid between us.
Trying not to notice how his hair falls forward when he cuts his steak, or the way his forearms look with his sleeves rolled up, or the fact that we're eating dinner together in a romantic hotel room and he's treating it like a business meeting.
Story of my life.
When we finish, I gather up the dishes while he works on his laptop. Always working. I should probably work too—those contracts won't send themselves—but I'm exhausted and my heart hurts and I just want this day to be over.
"I'm going to get ready for bed," I announce.
He nods without looking up.
I grab my overnight bag and lock myself in the bathroom. In the mirror, I look exactly like I feel—tired, sad, confused. I wash my face, brush my teeth, change into flannel pajama pants and a tank top. When I take out my braid, my hair falls in waves—the natural texture I always straighten away.
I stare at myself. This is who I really am. Soft, curvy, with messy hair and no makeup. Would Garth even recognize me like this?
Would he like what he saw?
I push the thought away and head back out. Garth's still at his laptop, but he looks up when I emerge.
For just a second, his eyes widen. Then the mask slams back down.
"Bathroom's free," I say quietly, climbing into bed—the far side, as close to the edge as I can get without falling off.
He stands, grabs his bag, and disappears inside. I hear the shower start, and I try very hard not to think about Garth Rhodes naked and wet six feet away from me.
I fail spectacularly.
When he comes out ten minutes later in boxer briefs and a t-shirt, I'm pretending to be asleep. Through my lashes, I watch him turn off the lights—all except the glow from the courtyard outside—and slide into bed.
He stays on his side. I stay on mine. There's got to be two feet between us, but I can feel the heat of his body, smell his soap—something clean and masculine.
"Goodnight, Claire."
"Goodnight, Mr. Rhodes."
Mr. Rhodes. Even now, sharing a bed in a honeymoon suite surrounded by rose petals, I call him Mr. Rhodes.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. Outside, the snow keeps falling, blanketing everything in white. Inside, I'm achingly aware of every breath he takes, every tiny shift of his body.
This is going to be the longest night of my life.