My stomach drops. “I’m sorry. Did you say honeymoon suite?”
Surely not. I must’ve misunderstood. It’s probably the difference in accents. We’ve got our Texas drawl, and he’s got whatever accent New Mexico has and—
“Perfect,” Miles says, giving me that damn wink again. “After all, we’re on a strict budget.”
The clerk hands me a clipboard—because this place really is stuck in the fifties—and I fill out the paperwork while he and Miles chat about the weather.
When I return the clipboard, he swipes my credit card and hands me the red heart key chain. “The honeymoon suite is in the cottage around back. Very private.”
I force a smile. “Thank you.”
“Oh, and I almost forgot.” He holds up a finger, signaling for us to wait. He disappears through a door to the right, and when he returns, he’s holding a bottle of champagne. “Comes with the suite.”
“That’s very kind, but we couldn’t possibly accept.” Adding a bottle of bubbly to this train wreck is the last thing we need. “You’ve already given us a complimentary upgrade.”
He waves me off and hands the bottle to Miles, who accepts with a wide-ass grin. “Leave us a review, and we’ll call it an even trade.”
Oh, he’ll be getting a review all right.
Miles thanks him again, and we grab our things from the Airstream before heading around back to find our accommodations.
Like the rest of the property, the small cabin is pink stucco with white trim, and there’s a sign next to the door with the wordsHoneymoon Suitepainted in black script.
“Remind me to never take marketing advice from you again,” I mutter, sliding the key into the lock. My pulse skitters, and I draw a fortifying breath as I turn the knob and push the door open.
A cold blast of air wafts out, raising goose bumps on my arms, and I freeze.
“Want me to carry you across the threshold?” Miles asks, voice ripe with amusement.
I give him the side-eye. “Don’t even think about it.”
He leans forward, peeking into the dark room. “I wonder how many couples have honeymooned here.”
“I’d rather not know.”
Some things are just better left a mystery.
“I could shoot a video,” he offers. “You know, film your reaction as we go in.”
“Hard pass.” Something tells me I’m going to need a minute to get my face camera-ready. And that’s saying something, given I’ve posted pics with sweat-damp hair, bedhead, and smudged makeup over the past week. “Let’s just see what we’re dealing with first.”
He chuckles. “You make it sound like we’re about to enter the Bates Motel.”
“Bite your tongue.”
I feel along the doorjamb for the light switch and flick it on.
A soft glow illuminates the suite, which is one big open-concept room. I’ve never seen so much red in my life. It’s everywhere. The drapes. The couch. Even the freaking carpet. It’s like Cupid designed the place himself.
It’s a whole mood.
“Holy shit.” Miles lets out a low whistle. “It’s like a seventies porno.”
“And just how would you know that?” I ask, immediately regretting the question. “Never mind.” I throw a hand up. “Don’t answer that.”
My gaze settles on the heart-shaped bed with its red satin comforter and matching canopy. Above it, my own shocked face stares back at me, reflected tenfold in the mirrored panels that line the wall above the headboard.
“Five bucks says the ceiling is mirrored, too.”
