The suite was on the tenth floor and easily three times the size of my apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed snow-dusted mountains. A fireplace flickered beneath a mantel decorated with fresh pine boughs and white candles. The kitchenette had a coffee machine that looked like it could file taxes.
“That one’s yours,” Jameson said, nodding toward the right-hand door. “I’ll take the other.”
I peeked inside and nearly choked. King bed. Seventeen pillows. Bathroom with a soaking tub big enough to host a small party.
“This isinsane,” I called out.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.” I laughed, dropping my suitcase. “I feel like I should be paying you rent.”
He smiled—an actual, genuine smile that made my stomach do something reckless. “Consider it part of your compensation package.”
“Pretty sure that violates some HR rule.”
“I’ll risk it.”
We stood there for a beat too long. The air shifted, charged and quiet. I was suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way he filled the space, the way my pulse fluttered in my throat.
So, naturally, my brain panicked. “I should probably mention,” I blurted, “I’ve never actually spent the night with a man before, so if I do anything weird like sleepwalk, just, you know, forgive me in advance.”
I meant it as a joke. Unfortunately, it didn’t sound like one.
His expression froze. “You’ve never—” He stopped, recalibrating. “You mean you’ve never shared a hotel room with a man.”
Oh. My. God.
“Right,” I said too quickly. “That’s what I meant. Obviously.”
Except we both knew it wasn’t obvious.
The silence stretched, heavy and excruciating. I grabbed my coat just to have something to do. “We should probably head to the expo center. Get the booth set up before it’s too late.”
“Sutton—”
“I’ll just—grab my notes. And water. Maybe the mini fridge has?—”
“Sutton.” His voice was softer now. “It’s okay.”
My head snapped up. “What is?”
“Whatever you meant. However you meant it.” His gaze held mine—steady, kind, and devastating. “It’s okay.”
I nodded mutely and escaped to my room, heart pounding hard enough to rattle my ribs.
The expo center was a controlled storm of chaos when we arrived. Booths half-assembled, cables snaking across the floor, vendors arguing over lighting. It should’ve been overwhelming, but the buzz of energy was addictive.
Our booth was in a prime spot—right by the main demo stage. Jameson had thought of everything: branded displays, demo tablets, even a portable induction cooktop so I could do live cooking segments.
“You really went all out,” I said, unpacking boxes.
“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
We fell into rhythm—him setting up the tech, me arranging props I’d brought from home—a wooden cutting board, a vintage mixing bowl, a sprig of Christmas greenery. I wanted the space to feel human, not corporate.
“Can I ask you something?” he said suddenly.
“Sure.”
