COLLETTA
Everything is cream and gold and aggressively rustic in that way that costs three times what actual rustic things cost. The reception desk is reclaimed barn wood. The light fixtures are mason jars hanging from iron chains. There's a chalkboard sign by the door that says "Love Grows Here" in swirly calligraphy that probably took someone four hours to perfect.
I already hate it.
Kruk stands two feet behind me and slightly to the left, hands clasped behind his back like a Secret Service agent guarding the President. The receptionist, a blonde woman whose name tag says "Brie", keeps glancing at him nervously while typing on her computer.
"So," she says, her smile bright and professional in that carefully practiced way that hospitality workers perfect after thousands of check-ins. "Reservation for... Fears?"
The way she says my last name, with just the tiniest upward inflection, like she's not quite sure she read it right, makes me want to sink through the reclaimed barn wood floor. Yes, Fears. Like the emotion. My ancestors were either very dramatic or very honest about their general disposition.
"Yes," I say, probably too loudly. "Two rooms, please. Should be under Colletta Fears."
I'm hyper-aware of Kruk's presence behind me, a wall of silent, watchful muscle. I resist the urge to look at him. That will only make this weirder.
Brie's fingers fly across the keyboard, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the keys in a rapid staccato. Click-click-click-click. Sounds fill the space between us. Her smile flickers, just for a second, just a tiny downward twitch at the corners, and my stomach does a preemptive clench of dread.
That flicker means nothing good. I've seen that expression before. It's the face people make right before they tell you your credit card was declined, or that your apartment application was rejected, or that the rescue dog you wanted to adopt actually bit three people and is considered "unadoptable."
"I'm showing a reservation under your name, but it's just listed as one guest."
"Right, but I called three days ago to add a plus-one. I spoke to someone named... Chad? He said it wouldn't be a problem."
"Oh, Chad's new." She winces apologetically. "He might not have updated the system correctly. Let me just check what we have available."
My stomach drops.
The clicking of her keyboard sounds unnaturally loud. Behind me, Kruk shifts his weight. I can feel him scanning the lobby like he expects an ambush to pour out of the complimentary coffee station.
"Okay," Brie says slowly. "So the good news is, we do have availability."
"Great."
"The less good news is... we're pretty booked for the wedding. Most of our standard rooms are full. We have a few suites left, but those are significantly more expensive, and?—"
"How much more expensive?"
She tells me.
I make a sound that's half laugh, half choke. That's my rent. That's an entire month of my actual rent.
"Right. Okay. Um. What about the non-suite options?"
More typing. Her expression shifts into something apologetic and vaguely uncomfortable.
"We have one room left that falls within your original price range," Brie says, her tone adopting that carefully neutral quality customer service workers use when they're about to deliver bad news.
"Perfect. I'll take it." Words fall before my brain can catch up. Any port in a storm, right? At least it's not another month's rent.
"It's the Lover's Loft."
Silence.
The words hang in the air between us like a cartoon anvil about to drop. My brain frantically tries to process what that name implies while simultaneously praying it's somehow innocuous. Maybe it's named after someone? A historical figure? Barnaby Lover, the town's founder?
"I'm sorry," I say slowly, "the what?"
"The Lover's Loft. It's our honeymoon suite. Well, not themainhoneymoon suite, that one has a hot tub on the balcony, but this one is still very romantic. It has a heart-shaped bed and a complimentary bottle of champagne and rose petals on the pillows and?—"
