Another beat passes before he gives in. “All right, then.”
“All right?” The receptionist lets out a relieved breath as though she’d been bracing for a disgruntled customer. “Great. I’ll make you a set of keys.”
A few minutes later, Brody’s grabbed his bag from the car, and we’re headed up to the honeymoon suite.
“Wow.” Brody sets his bag down inside the suite. “I didn’t realize we’d be staying in the Taj Mahal.”
I didn’t pick the room, but I’m embarrassed just the same, as though I somehow dragged him into the fever dream that is the honeymoon suite. There’s still a trail of petals leading from the door to the bedroom.
“I should have asked housekeeping to come by and pick this up.”
“What?” An amused smile plays at his lips. “You don’t want flower petals all over your room? I can’t imagine why not.”
I give his shoulder a little smack. “Stop it, you.”
He laughs, catching my hand.
And I’m suddenly hyperaware of how small the room feels with both of us in it. “I feel bad. You’ve been traveling almost all day. I should…Let me take the couch,” I offer, gesturing to the sofa.
“Absolutely not.”
“Brody—”
“Chloe.” He looks at me. Really looks at me with those stupidly blue eyes. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you take the couch?” He’s already moving toward it, testing the cushions. “I’ve slept in worse places. Team bus after a double overtime game in Dallas? This is luxury.” He’s already flopping down on the couch, tossing his feet up on the coffee table. “Surely you wouldn’t take this away from me.”
“All right, fine.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll allow it.”
He smirks, and my heart does a full pirouette.
A beat passes while I’m still standing there, staring at him, my brain turning to mush, and Brody clears his throat. “So, are you gonna turn in, or…” He pauses, and I swear I see something hopeful flicker across his face. “We could hang out? If you want.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
There is quite literally nothing I’d like more than just a few more minutes together.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Yeah. Let me just…I’m gonna go change.”
His smile is worth every bit of confusion currently rioting in my chest. “Take your time.”
I grab my pajamas and practically flee to the bathroom.
Very dignified.
I change into flannel pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Nothing even remotely romantic. Practically armor. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Stare at my reflection in the mirror and give myself a stern talking-to about not doing anything stupid.
The mirror doesn’t respond.
Helpful.
When I come out, Brody’s on the couch again, leaning back against the cushions. He’s changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, which looks both effortlessly comfortable and unfairly attractive.
The fireplace is still going, casting flickering shadows across his face, and Brody’s holding the remote, flipping through the channels.
He looks up when I appear, and something warm crosses his face. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I move toward the couch, and he scoots over to make room for me. The TV cycles through channels—a home renovation show, a true-crime documentary, what appears to be a very dramatic reality dating show?—
Then he lands on a cooking competition. Two chefs in white coats working frantically while a timer counts down. The chairman’s voice booms dramatically about a secret ingredient.
