“Sorr—I’ll be quiet now.”
I press my lips together and try to give myself a pep talk.Maxine Palmer, you are thirty-two years old. You’ve shaken hands with Barack freaking Obama. Get it together.
But I’m sitting next to a man who smells like hard work and Hennessy, and looks like he could both unalive me with a look and annihilate my labia. And yes, I’d still thank him. I’d thank this bear of a man with everything I’ve got!
I want to ask him a hundred more questions just to hear his deep, raspy voice again, but before I can open my mouth, we pull into a hotel, a lodge, that looks like it was pulled from a luxury travel magazine. Classy. Pricey. Definitely above my “Budget Rental Car in a ditch” price range.
“I don’t think I can afford this,” I admit, biting my lip.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, cool and casual. “I’ve got you.”
Oh. Okay then,Book boyfriend!
I walk up to the front desk, fixing my hair and trying not to look like a woman who just screamed Michael Jackson lyrics at a stranger in the woods.
The concierge greets me with a practiced smile. She’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue uniform and a name tag that readsGeneviève, which is probably French for “about to fuck up your night.”
“Bonsoir! Welcome to Château Evergreen,” she chirps. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, but I was hoping you might have a room available for the night? Just for one. Please. It’s been...aday.”
She types something into her computer, nodding politely. “Actually, yes—we do have one room left and one suite.”
I practically melt with relief. “Thank God. I’ll take the room.”
She reaches for my ID, and I hand it over.
That was a mistake.
Her eyes scan the card, then flick up to meet mine.
“Ah,” she says, her smile freezing into something colder than a Canadian February. “You are...American.”
I blink. “Yes. Is that...a problem?”
She tilts her head sympathetically. “Unfortunately...the room has just been booked.”You have got to be kidding me.
I glance around the lobby. It’s empty. “Just now?”
“Yes.Très unfortunate.”
Before I can fully process the steaming pile of BS I’ve just been handed, The Bear strolls in behind me. He steps up beside me, calm and confident, like a damn bodyguard with a beard.
“Gen, my love,” he says smoothly, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to a French accent. “Is there any room available?” He leans in just enough. “Pour moi, mon amour?”
Was that French?
Molly, you in danger, girl!My libido screams, in the voice of Whoopi Goldberg, from deep within my soul.
Apparently, The Bear can charm when he wants to. And I amnotokay.
Geneviève’s smile reappears, tighter now, polished with the kind of fake sweetness that makes me want to throw her keyboard across the lobby.
“Well...” she purrs, eyes flicking to him andonlyhim, “we do have the penthouse suite, Mr. Shaw. Foryou.” Her lashes flutter, then her facial expression turns stiff as she brings her gaze to me. “Two hundred thousand dollars a night.”
I choke on my own breath. “Two hundredwhatnow?! Is it made of gold? Does it come with a foot massage from Idris Elba? Do beautiful African men bathe me and chant ‘whatever you like’ every time I ask for a towel like inComing to America?!”
The Bear curses, “Fuck it,” under his breath, already turning on his heel like he’s five seconds from leaving me to fend for myself in this Canadian hellscape.
