I want to die. Actually die. The desk clerk is still watching us with this mix of confusion and pity, probably thinking we're the saddest almost-couple she's ever seen.
We ride the elevator to the third floor in painful silence. I can feel the awkwardness radiating off both of us. The honeymoon suite. With rose petals on the bed. This is a nightmare.
The doors open and Garth leads the way to room 304. He unlocks it with the key card and I follow him inside.
And oh my God.
It's a massive king-sized bed with white linens and—yep, there they are—red rose petals scattered across it in the shape of aheart. Champagne on ice on the dresser next to a box of fancy chocolates. Candles everywhere (unlit, thank God). The window looks out over a courtyard where snow's piling up on a frozen fountain, and there are twinkling lights strung everywhere making everything glow soft and golden.
There's even a bottle of massage oil on the nightstand.
I'm going to die. This is how I die.
"This is fine," Garth says, setting his briefcase down with a decisive thud. His voice is completely flat, but I can see a muscle ticking in his jaw. He's lying. We both know it. But he's Garth Rhodes, and if he decides something's fine, then it's fine, reality and rose petals be damned.
"I should send those contracts," I say, because work is safe. Work is what we do.
"Later." He's already taking off his coat, loosening his tie. "Order room service. We need to eat."
I pull out my phone, finding the hotel's menu, trying really hard not to watch him unbutton his collar. Trying not to think about spending the next twelve hours trapped in this room with him.
Trying not to hope.
Because hope, I've learned the hard way, is the most dangerous thing of all.
"What do you want?" I ask, eyes glued to my screen.
There's a pause—long enough that I look up.
Garth's watching me with this expression I can't read, something dark and complicated in those grey eyes.
"Whatever you're having," he says finally. "You choose."
And somehow, those three words—you choose—feel more intimate than anything he's ever said to me.
I order way too much food because that's safer than thinking about the bed. About the champagne. About the massage oil I'm pretending I didn't see. About the fact that Garth Rhodesjust told me to choose something for the first time in fourteen months.
About the fact that there's no cot coming. Just one massive bed covered in rose petals that we're apparently going to have to share.
"I can sleep on the floor," I blurt out.
Garth looks up from where he's unpacking his laptop. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I don't mind, really. I can just—"
"Claire." His voice is firm. "You're not sleeping on the floor. Neither am I. It's a king bed. We're adults. We can share it without..." He trails off, jaw tight.
Without what? Without touching? Without wanting to?
"Okay," I say quietly, because what else can I say?
The silence stretches between us, thick and awkward. Outside, snow keeps falling.
I should say something. Ask about work, maybe. Keep things professional. But all I can think about is that bed, those rose petals, and the fact that in a few hours, I'm going to be lying next to Garth Rhodes in a honeymoon suite on Christmas Eve.
And he'll still have no idea that I'm in love with him.
Room service arrives twenty minutes later—steak, roasted vegetables, some kind of fancy potato situation that smells incredible, and a chocolate dessert that looks like art. We eat at the small table by the window, mostly in silence, watching the snow come down harder.
