Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Soren
Later, after we begin to unpack—or more accurately after she claims the closet and I pretend the edge of the armchair counts as a dresser—Winnifred disappears into the bathroom to change.
I sit stiffly on the edge of the bed like it’s wired to explode the second I exhale too confidently. There’s a rose petal stuck to the duvet. I try to brush it off. It clings like it knows something I don’t.
When she reappears, she’s swapped airport exhaustion for soft pajama shorts and a sleep shirt that boldly reads: I Nap Harder Than You Party. She’s holding a tiny travel-size facial mist and humming.
Humming.
“This is very casual for a woman who just threatened murder,” I say.
She shrugs, spritzes her face like she’s in a skincare commercial. “I had a snack. I feel better.”
My gaze flicks toward the room service cart. The Couple’s Welcome Package is in full force: chocolate-dipped strawberries, a chilled bottle of champagne sweating in an ice bucket, two flutes, and what I’m ninety percent sure is a hand-folded towel swan perched on a tray of macarons.
“A snack,” I repeat. “You mean the strawberries meant to seduce us?”
“They’re dipped in dark chocolate and come with their tiny forks. I’m not made of stone.”
“Did you open the champagne too?”
She gestures toward the half-full glass on the nightstand. “I poured one. For research purposes.”
“Of course. Purely academic.”
She plops down on the bed beside me, cross-legged and content, like this is all perfectly normal. “Also, I read the little card.”
“There was a card?”
She leans over, grabs it from the tray, and hands it to me. I read aloud.
“Tonight’s experience has been carefully curated for two. Please select your dinner preferences via the in-room tablet. Chef’s specials include aphrodisiac-inspired amuse-bouchées, shared entrées, and a ‘dessert for lovers.’”
That’s a lot of words to say that this room assumes we’re wildly into each other and allergic to boundaries.
“So,” she says, stretching like a cat with zero shame and max pajama confidence, “do we order the dinner, or do we pretend we didn’t read the part about ‘dessert for lovers’ and sneak out for pizza?”
I look down at the bed. The strawberries. The champagne. The two perfectly arranged place settings practically whisper ‘kiss already,’ waiting for food.
I’ve lost this round already.
“Depends,” I say. “Does the dessert come with a towel swan? Because I’m not sure if I can handle those things staring at me.”
She follows my gaze and makes a face. “It’s giving . . . bedroom origami with ulterior motives.”
“Exactly. That swan might have expectations I am not emotionally prepared to meet.”
She laughs, grabs a strawberry, and bites into it like we’re on the world’s weirdest honeymoon. “Honestly? I don’t need a curated experience. I just want food that doesn’t come with implied eye contact.”
“Well, the tablet says we can customize our options,” I say, poking at it halfheartedly. “But I’m more tired than hungry. We had dinner on the plane.”
She grabs the remote and flops back dramatically against the pillows. “I’m emotionally full from all the sarcasm.”
“Same,” I say, tossing the tablet aside like it personally insulted me. “Let’s pretend this is one of those experimental retreats where you bond by skipping meals and not addressing your feelings.”
“I think you just described my last relationship,” she deadpans.
“No, your last relationship was Chad the LARPer.”
She groans and throws her head back against the pillows. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. It’s still too soon to discuss him. I get secondhand embarrassment from my own memories.”
“Fine, we won’t discuss him during this trip.” Then, I gesture toward the bed. “I can take the floor. I mean, there’s probably an emergency cot hiding in a closet. Or a yoga mat. A very romantic yoga mat. Maybe one with inspirational quotes printed on it.”
She cocks her head and squints at me like I just said something in another language, and she’s too polite to mock me outright. “You’re spiraling, and let me remind you that it’s my job to do so, not yours.”
“No. I’m not spiraling. I’m problem-solving.”
“You’re cute when you spiral.”
I blink. “Don’t say that.”
“What? I can’t call my fake boyfriend cute?” she says, tilting her head with mock innocence and zero remorse.
“Not if you say it like that,” I mutter, crossing my arms.
“Like what?”
“Like you mean it.”
She smiles then—slow and unapologetic. Dangerous. “Well. That would be confusing. I’ve decided to fully commit to the role. I’m method-acting. I started the moment we changed time zones.”
There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough.
She pulls back the covers and climbs in like this is her natural habitat. “You’re taking the right side,” she announces. “That’s your side. You’re right-handed. It makes sense. Plus, if one of us has to defend against midnight assassins, you’re the buffer.”
“I feel so honored.”
“You should.” She glances at me unamused. “It’s a very important job. Also, I like being near the strawberries.”
“You’re going to regret that when I roll off the bed mid-dream and take the swan with me.”
She settles in like she hasn’t just turned my nervous system into spaghetti. “Then I’ll mourn him appropriately. He died doing what he loved—looming quietly over inappropriate room service.”