"When we saw you were both booked on separate floors, we took the liberty of upgrading you to our honeymoon suite!" The manager beamed like he'd personally solved world hunger. "Such a high-profile couple shouldn't be separated. It's our finest room—panoramic views, champagne on ice, and our most romantic amenities."
Libby felt her stomach drop. "That's so... thoughtful," she managed.
"But unnecessary," Liam added quickly. "Our original rooms were?—"
"Already reassigned," the manager interrupted cheerfully. "The conference expansion was quite demanding, but this works out perfectly! The bellhop will bring your luggage to the suite. Seventeenth floor. Enjoy your evening!"
He bustled away before they could protest, leaving them standing in the lobby with matching expressions of panic.
"Well," Libby said quietly, "that's..."
"Complicated," Liam finished.
They rode the elevator in tense silence. Varlenko and Jensen were already inside when they entered, both grinning knowingly.
"Honeymoon suite,da?" Varlenko waggled his eyebrows. "Is very romantic. Perfect for young couple in love."
"It was the only room available," Liam said flatly.
"Of course," Jensen agreed with mock seriousness. "Nothing wrong with taking advantage of a road game to have a little... personal time." He drew out the word 'personal' with obvious implication.
The teammates mercifully exited on the tenth floor, though Varlenko called out "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" as the doors closed.
Finally alone, they continued up to the seventeenth floor in silence.
The suite was, admittedly, gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Portland's skyline, the sitting area was larger than Libby's entire apartment, and the bed?—
The bed was enormous. California king, with approximately seventeen pillows and a duvet that looked like a cloud had been recruited for luxury bedding purposes. Rose petals were scattered across it in a heart shape.
They stood in the doorway staring at it like it might suddenly spring to life and attack them.
"It's actually offensive how comfortable that looks," Libby said.
"The sofa's perfectly adequate," Liam countered, though he was eyeing the bed with similar longing.
"For someone under six feet, maybe."
"I've slept in worse places."
"Name one."
"Team plane to Detroit last month. Middle seat between Varlenko snoring and Thompson downing energy drinks."
Libby bit her lip to keep from laughing. "That does sound terrible."
"You have no idea. Varlenko sounds like a broken chainsaw." But his eyes were amused now, the tension from earlier softening.
The bellhop finally left after Liam tipped him, and the door clicked shut with devastating finality.
"I'll take the sofa," they both said simultaneously.
"Absolutely not," Libby said, her voice rising with genuine alarm. "You're the captain. You have Game 4 tomorrow. In the playoffs."
"You're clearly exhausted?—"
"Liam D'Arcy, you are not sleeping on a sofa the night before a playoff game. I will physically fight you." She moved between him and the sofa like a tiny bodyguard. "The city of Boston would never forgive me.Iwould never forgive me. You need proper rest for tomorrow."
"Libby—"
