"Yeah. The Parkside Inn. About ten minutes from here."
He nods, already pulling up a car service. Around us, the terminal is pure chaos—families with screaming kids, pissed-off travelers arguing with gate agents, constant announcements about cancellations. "Jingle Bell Rock" plays over the PA system, tinny and incongruous with the collective misery.
"Do you know what kind of room it is?" he asks, still staring at his phone.
Here we go.
"It's... it's the honeymoon suite. It just became available—last minute cancellation."
His fingers stop moving. He looks up at me and I feel pinned.
"It's the only option," I add quickly. "Everything else is completely booked. If we don't want it, I can—"
"We'll take it." His voice is flat. "It's one night. We're adults."
We're adults. Right. Adults who have to share a honeymoon suite on Christmas Eve.
This is fine. Everything's fine.
The car shows up, all sleek and black, and Garth holds the door for me—the only gentlemanly thing he's done all day. I slide in, suddenly aware of how small the space is, of his thigh inches from mine when he settles in next to me.
The driver pulls away and I watch Chicago disappear into the snow. Garth's on his phone immediately, typing with those sharp, efficient movements. Work, probably. Always work.
I pull out my phone and start on the Hartwell contracts because that's what I do. Work. Make myself useful. Make myself indispensable to a man who treats me like very expensive office equipment.
The Parkside Inn appears through the snow like something from a movie—stone facade, warm lights in every window, actual wreaths on the doors. Through the windows, I can see a fire burning in what must be the lobby. It's charming and romantic and literally the worst possible place for me to spend Christmas Eve with the man I'm in love with who barely tolerates me.
"Let me handle check-in," Garth says as we walk into the cozy lobby.
And cozy is the right word. There's a real fire crackling in the stone fireplace, garlands wrapped around the banisters, the smell of cinnamon and pine thick in the air. Soft Christmas jazz plays and there are couples everywhere, laughing and drinking mulled wine from a station in the corner.
It's perfect.
It's torture.
I hang back while he talks to the young woman at the desk. She's smiling at him—everyone smiles at Garth when he's using his business charm. It's only with me that he keeps the mask on 24/7.
"Ah yes, the honeymoon suite!" Her smile gets even bigger. "You're so lucky—we just had a cancellation this afternoon. It's our most romantic room."
Oh God.
Garth's shoulders tense slightly. "Actually, we're not—"
"It has the best view of the courtyard," she continues, oblivious. "And we've already prepared it with champagne,chocolates, rose petals on the bed... the full experience. You two are going to love it."
"We're colleagues," Garth says firmly. "We just need somewhere to sleep."
The clerk's smile falters into confusion as she looks between us—him in his expensive suit, me significantly younger, both of us clearly uncomfortable. I can see her trying to figure out what's going on.
"Oh. I... of course." She clears her throat. "Well, we can certainly remove the rose petals if you'd like, but the champagne and chocolates are already—"
"It's fine," Garth cuts her off. "Do you have a cot we can bring up?"
Her confusion deepens. "A cot? For the honeymoon suite?" She clicks through her computer. "I'm so sorry, sir, but we're completely out. With all the flight cancellations, we've had to bring in every spare bed we have. The suite has a king bed, though, so there should be plenty of space for..." She trails off, clearly realizing that's not helpful.
Garth's jaw tightens. "Fine. Thank you."
He turns back to me, handing me a key card without meeting my eyes. "Let's go."
