Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Soren
We reach the front desk of the Merkel Hotel, and for a fleeting, delusional second, I think this might actually go smoothly. That’s on me.
Winnifred stands beside me, balancing her weekender bag like she’s auditioning for a perfume ad called “Emotional Baggage: The Limited Edition.” She’s still a little flushed from the flight, wind-blown from that brief tarmac sprint, and doing her very best to look unimpressed by the cascading chandeliers above us.
It’s not going well.
She keeps glancing up at them like she’s conducting a secret ranking system based on ‘most dramatic sparkle,’ ‘best-supporting crystal,’ and ‘most likely to blind a guest with wealth envy.’
The concierge greets us with a smile that’s been ironed to perfection—creased just right at the corners like it graduated from a finishing school where you major in expensive linen and minor in charm. His name tag gleams like it’s been buffed between guests.
“Welcome to the Merkel Hotel. Checking in?”
“Thorn,” I say. “Reservation under Soren Thorn.”
His fingers move with efficiency along the keyboard. Then he looks up and smiles wider, the kind of grin that says, Brace yourself, sir. I have the best for you.
“Yes, Mr. Thorn. We have you in the Grand Terrace Suite.”
Grand.
Terrace.
Suite.
Winnifred’s head snaps toward me so fast her ponytail nearly takes out a plant. Her eyes are narrow. Suspicious. Full of judgment. “You got the grand suite?”
I blink at the concierge, then at her, mentally scanning the last twenty-four hours like a man who definitely meant to pack socks and absolutely did not.
“I don’t remember requesting anything grand,” I murmur, already dreading whatever comes next. “Or a suite.”
“Booked through a company card,” the concierge offers, too helpfully. “Special couple’s package. Very romantic.”
Very romantic.
Oh, fuck no, there’s no romance here.
Winnifred turns to me with the slow, calculated menace of a woman who’s about to attack me in front of all the guests.
“You booked us a couple’s package?”
“No,” I say, with the firm conviction of a man clinging to the last shreds of plausible deniability. “I asked Gretchen to book two rooms. I was very specific. Very.”
“You booked a suite,” she hisses like I’ve committed the cardinal sin of fake-dating logistics. “The couple’s package.”
“That’s not what I asked for,” I say, but it sounds less like a defense and more like the prelude to a very embarrassing story.
She blinks. “Do you think they throw in candles and rose petals for single occupancy?”
Her voice drips with sarcasm, weaponized by years of experience in making me squirm. I start to defend myself but get mentally sideswiped by the image of rose petals and one of those chocolate-dipped strawberry trays by a heart-shaped tub.
Oh, fuck.
The concierge, bless his soul, chooses that moment to hand over a keycard with a flourish. “Everything’s been prepared to your preferences, Mr. Thorn. Enjoy your stay. Breakfast will be delivered to your room each morning unless otherwise requested.”
I clear my throat, already sweating. “Actually, is there a second room available? Separate. Not . . . romantically curated.”
Winnifred leans in, fixes the concierge with her best moody glare. “We hate romance,” she deadpans, eyes dark with faux disdain. “We’re allergic to feelings.”
The concierge’s smile wavers ever so slightly, just enough to register the silent ‘help me’ blinking behind her eyes. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked for the weekend. There’s a wedding party and a wellness retreat taking up most of our standard rooms.”
“Right, but maybe something smaller? A broom closet? Laundry chute? I’m flexible.”
He taps at the keyboard again, hopeful fingers doing absolutely nothing to change our fate. “The Grand Terrace Suite is the only accommodation available. But it’s very spacious—two sinks, a separate seating area, and a balcony with skyline views. Very romantic.”
Winnifred turns her head slowly, theatrically, until she’s looking directly at me. Her expression is a masterclass in understated horror. “Boston skyline. Perfect. That way, when I shove you off the balcony, you can die with a view of traffic and poor parking decisions.”
“Right,” I say, still looking at the concierge and not at Winnifred. “Of course there is. Because why wouldn’t there be both matrimony and detox happening at the same time? Bring the two sinks.”
“I’m sure housekeeping can remove the rose petals,” the concierge offers as if that might somehow save me. “And we can take the strawberries—”
“Don’t touch the strawberries,” Winnifred cuts in. “That might be the only thing that keeps him alive.”
A pause.
A single, delicate beat where I can practically hear her internal monologue debating whether to laugh or murder me first.
Winnifred makes a choked sound that I choose to interpret as her trying not to laugh—or possibly drafting my obituary in her head.
Her eyebrows lift so far I swear they try to make a break for her hairline.
“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” she whispers sweetly as we walk toward the elevators. “And then I’ll redecorate your house in tasteful mourning neutrals.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I mutter, gripping the keycard like it’s my last will and testament.
“Manifestation is dangerous.”
“What?”
“You asked for the illusion of romance,” she explains. “And now the universe has delivered it in eight hundred thread count.”
I sigh as we step into the elevator. “Just . . . let’s see the room before you start drafting my obituary.”
She hums. “Oh, I already have. It’s very tasteful. Some might even say aesthetically moving.”
The suite is . . . large.
And dimly lit.
And far too quiet.
And, as of two steps inside, clearly meant for one thing: seduction via corporate hospitality.
There’s a fireplace flickering in the corner. A heart-shaped fruit platter sits on the coffee table, flanked by a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. And front and center, surrounded by fluffy pillows and turndown service folded into origami swans, is a single, massive, king-sized bed.
Winnifred stops in the doorway.
I stop behind her.
Neither of us speaks. The silence grows sentient.
Finally, she speaks. Very slowly. Very calmly. “Oh. Look. One bed.” She sighs very dramatically. “How convenient.”
I blink. “It’s a big bed.”
She turns to me, expression neutral. “Is it big enough for your poor decision-making?”
“It’s not like I designed the room,” I say, stepping past her to set my bag down like that somehow makes this less awkward. “I told Gretchen to book something low-key for us. I didn’t realize low-key meant Fifty Shades of Beige.”
Winnifred crosses her arms, one hip cocked. “You know what this is? This is fake dating karma. You’re being punished for making me lie to your family while pretending not to be in love with me.”
I exhale, scrubbing a hand down my face. “We’re just sleeping. That’s all.”
“In one bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
She glances around.
“There is no couch.”
I look.
She’s right.
There’s a window seat. A small armchair that might fit half of me. And something that might be a decorative bench, but it looks about as comfortable as a steel ironing board.
“There has to be something,” I say.
“There is,” she says sweetly, striding over to the bed. “It’s this. It’s the one thing in this room that doesn’t look like a crime against lumbar support.”
Then she flops dramatically onto the mattress and sighs like she’s in a spa commercial, arms stretched overhead, the picture of shameless comfort.
“It’s fine,” she says, already pulling a throw blanket over her lap like she’s claiming territorial rights. “We’re adults. You won’t even notice I’m here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not even remotely true.”
She grins. “I know.”
She pats the space beside her without looking at me.
I don’t move.
I don’t trust her—or maybe it’s that I don’t trust myself in one bed with her.