Chapter 3
COLLETTA
Everything is cream and gold and aggressively rustic in that way that costs three times what actual rustic things cost. The reception desk is reclaimed barn wood.
The light fixtures are mason jars hanging from iron chains.
There's a chalkboard sign by the door that says "Love Grows Here" in swirly calligraphy that probably took someone four hours to perfect.
I already hate it.
Kruk stands two feet behind me and slightly to the left, hands clasped behind his back like a Secret Service agent guarding the President. The receptionist, a blonde woman whose name tag says "Brie", keeps glancing at him nervously while typing on her computer.
"So," she says, her smile bright and professional in that carefully practiced way that hospitality workers perfect after thousands of check-ins. "Reservation for... Fears?"
The way she says my last name, with just the tiniest upward inflection, like she's not quite sure she read it right, makes me want to sink through the reclaimed barn wood floor. Yes, Fears. Like the emotion. My ancestors were either very dramatic or very honest about their general disposition.
"Yes," I say, probably too loudly. "Two rooms, please. Should be under Colletta Fears."
I'm hyper-aware of Kruk's presence behind me, a wall of silent, watchful muscle. I resist the urge to look at him. That will only make this weirder.
Brie's fingers fly across the keyboard, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the keys in a rapid staccato.
Click-click-click-click. Sounds fill the space between us.
Her smile flickers, just for a second, just a tiny downward twitch at the corners, and my stomach does a preemptive clench of dread.
That flicker means nothing good. I've seen that expression before.
It's the face people make right before they tell you your credit card was declined, or that your apartment application was rejected, or that the rescue dog you wanted to adopt actually bit three people and is considered "unadoptable. "
"I'm showing a reservation under your name, but it's just listed as one guest."
"Right, but I called three days ago to add a plus-one. I spoke to someone named... Chad? He said it wouldn't be a problem."
"Oh, Chad's new." She winces apologetically. "He might not have updated the system correctly. Let me just check what we have available."
My stomach drops.
The clicking of her keyboard sounds unnaturally loud. Behind me, Kruk shifts his weight. I can feel him scanning the lobby like he expects an ambush to pour out of the complimentary coffee station.
"Okay," Brie says slowly. "So the good news is, we do have availability."
"Great."
"The less good news is... we're pretty booked for the wedding. Most of our standard rooms are full. We have a few suites left, but those are significantly more expensive, and—"
"How much more expensive?"
She tells me.
I make a sound that's half laugh, half choke. That's my rent. That's an entire month of my actual rent.
"Right. Okay. Um. What about the non-suite options?"
More typing. Her expression shifts into something apologetic and vaguely uncomfortable.
"We have one room left that falls within your original price range," Brie says, her tone adopting that carefully neutral quality customer service workers use when they're about to deliver bad news.
"Perfect. I'll take it." Words fall before my brain can catch up. Any port in a storm, right? At least it's not another month's rent.
"It's the Lover's Loft."
Silence.
The words hang in the air between us like a cartoon anvil about to drop. My brain frantically tries to process what that name implies while simultaneously praying it's somehow innocuous. Maybe it's named after someone? A historical figure? Barnaby Lover, the town's founder?
"I'm sorry," I say slowly, "the what?"
"The Lover's Loft. It's our honeymoon suite. Well, not the main honeymoon suite, that one has a hot tub on the balcony, but this one is still very romantic. It has a heart-shaped bed and a complimentary bottle of champagne and rose petals on the pillows and—"
"A heart-shaped bed." I repeat the words slowly, hoping that somehow saying them out loud will make them less absurd. They don't.
"Yes," Brie confirms, her smile never wavering.
"As in," I continue, because apparently I need to walk through this nightmare step by step, "the actual mattress itself is physically shaped like a heart. Like a Valentine's Day card."
"That's correct." Brie's smile has achieved new heights of determined cheerfulness, the kind that could withstand nuclear fallout. "It's actually very popular with couples. We get a lot of bookings for anniversaries and special occasions."
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for her to crack and admit this is some elaborate hotel industry hazing ritual for desperate last-minute bookings.
She doesn't crack.
The smile holds.
I open my mouth to argue, to demand something, anything else, even a cot in the storage closet, when I feel it.
That familiar, uncomfortable prickling awareness that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my stomach clench in preemptive dread.
Someone is watching me.
I can feel their eyes on me like a physical weight, that sixth sense that evolution gifted us specifically so we'd know when predators, or ex-boyfriends, were lurking nearby.
I don't want to turn. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to keep facing Brie and her apocalypse-proof smile, to pretend I haven't noticed, to maybe just sprint directly out of the hotel and never look back.
But I turn anyway, because apparently I'm a masochist.
And there he is.
Derek.
Of course it's Derek. Of course it is. Because this day wasn't already a sufficient dumpster fire, the universe decided it needed more fuel.
He's walking through the lobby with his new girlfriend, Madison, who looks like she was genetically engineered in a lab to be the exact opposite of me.
Tall, blonde, effortlessly elegant in a white sundress that probably costs more than my car payment.
She's laughing at something he just said, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
He sees me.
His expression shifts into something smug and satisfied, the look of a man who knows he's winning and wants to make sure you know it too.
"Lettie," he says, because he's always called me Lettie even after I told him a thousand times I hate it. "Didn't expect to see you here so early."
"Derek." My voice comes out flat. "Madison."
"Hi!" Madison's smile is bright and genuine, which somehow makes it worse. "It's so nice to finally meet you! Derek's told me so much about you."
I'll bet he has. I'll bet he's told her all about his crazy ex-girlfriend who cried at the Olive Garden and couldn't parallel park and always wore mismatched socks. I'll bet they've had a good laugh about it over brunch at some overpriced bistro with tiny portions and obscure coffee blends.
Derek's gaze slides past me, his eyes tracking upward, and upward, until they finally land on Kruk standing behind me like a particularly menacing piece of architectural furniture. His eyebrows climb so high they nearly disappear into his carefully-styled hairline.
"Who's this?" he asks, and there's a note in his voice I've never heard before. Something between fascination and genuine alarm.
My brain short-circuits. Every thought I've ever had evaporates instantly, leaving nothing but static and the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
This is it. This is the moment. I need to sell this. I need to make Derek believe that I am completely over him, that I have moved on to someone bigger and better and infinitely more intimidating.
I reach out and grab Kruk's arm.
His bicep is hard as stone under my palm. Not just firm. Not just muscular. Literally like gripping a boulder wrapped in warm skin and a thin layer of black cotton. I can feel the individual muscle fibers, the tendons like steel cables, the sheer immovable solidity of him.
My fingers don't even come close to wrapping around it.
I try anyway, attempting to make the gesture look casual and affectionate, like this is something I do all the time, like I'm accustomed to touching someone who feels less like a human being and more like a tank made of meat and bone.
The sheer size of him is almost absurd this close up, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how small my hand looks against his arm, how delicate my fingers appear splayed across that expanse of solid muscle.
"This is Kruk," I hear myself say, and my voice comes out surprisingly steady considering my internal panic has reached apocalyptic levels. I force my lips into what I desperately hope resembles a loving smile rather than a grimace of terror. "My fiancé."
The word hangs in the air between us like a guillotine blade.
Derek blinks. Once. Twice. His perfect face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession, surprise, confusion, something that might be jealousy or might just be indigestion from the overpriced canapés.
Madison's smile freezes on her face, transforming from warm and welcoming into something that looks like it's been lacquered onto her features and left to harden. Her eyes go wide, flicking between me and Kruk with a visible alarm.
Kruk, to his credit, doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just stands there like a mountain that has decided to wear a tuxedo t-shirt.
"Your... fiancé," Derek repeats slowly, his voice careful and measured, like he's testing out each syllable to make sure he's heard correctly.
His eyes haven't left Kruk's face, and I can practically see the gears grinding in his head as he tries to reconcile the image before him with whatever Monica told him about my fictional medical professional boyfriend.
"Yes," I say, the word coming out perhaps a bit too forcefully. I'm gripping Kruk's arm so tightly now that my knuckles have gone white, though I doubt he can even feel it through all that muscle.