"A heart-shaped bed." I repeat the words slowly, hoping that somehow saying them out loud will make them less absurd. They don't.
"Yes," Brie confirms, her smile never wavering.
"As in," I continue, because apparently I need to walk through this nightmare step by step, "the actual mattress itself is physically shaped like a heart. Like a Valentine's Day card."
"That's correct." Brie's smile has achieved new heights of determined cheerfulness, the kind that could withstand nuclear fallout. "It's actually very popular with couples. We get a lot of bookings for anniversaries and special occasions."
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for her to crack and admit this is some elaborate hotel industry hazing ritual for desperate last-minute bookings.
She doesn't crack.
The smile holds.
I open my mouth to argue, to demand something, anything else, even a cot in the storage closet, when I feel it.
That familiar, uncomfortable prickling awareness that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my stomach clench in preemptive dread.
Someone is watching me.
I can feel their eyes on me like a physical weight, that sixth sense that evolution gifted us specifically so we'd know when predators, or ex-boyfriends, were lurking nearby.
I don't want to turn. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to keep facing Brie and her apocalypse-proof smile, to pretend I haven't noticed, to maybe just sprint directly out of the hotel and never look back.
But I turn anyway, because apparently I'm a masochist.
And there he is.
Derek.
Of course it's Derek. Ofcourseit is. Because this day wasn't already a sufficient dumpster fire, the universe decided it needed more fuel.
He's walking through the lobby with his new girlfriend, Madison, who looks like she was genetically engineered in a lab to be the exact opposite of me. Tall, blonde, effortlessly elegant in a white sundress that probably costs more than mycar payment. She's laughing at something he just said, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
He sees me.
His expression shifts into something smug and satisfied, the look of a man who knows he's winning and wants to make sure you know it too.
"Lettie," he says, because he's always called me Lettie even after I told him a thousand times I hate it. "Didn't expect to see you here so early."
"Derek." My voice comes out flat. "Madison."
"Hi!" Madison's smile is bright and genuine, which somehow makes it worse. "It's so nice to finally meet you! Derek's told me so much about you."
I'll bet he has. I'll bet he's told her all about his crazy ex-girlfriend who cried at the Olive Garden and couldn't parallel park and always wore mismatched socks. I'll bet they've had a good laugh about it over brunch at some overpriced bistro with tiny portions and obscure coffee blends.
Derek's gaze slides past me, his eyes tracking upward, and upward, until they finally land on Kruk standing behind me like a particularly menacing piece of architectural furniture. His eyebrows climb so high they nearly disappear into his carefully-styled hairline.
"Who's this?" he asks, and there's a note in his voice I've never heard before. Something between fascination and genuine alarm.
My brain short-circuits. Every thought I've ever had evaporates instantly, leaving nothing but static and the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
This is it. This is the moment. I need to sell this. I need to make Derek believe that I am completely over him, that I have moved on to someone bigger and better and infinitely more intimidating.
I reach out and grab Kruk's arm.
His bicep is hard as stone under my palm. Not just firm. Not just muscular. Literally like gripping a boulder wrapped in warm skin and a thin layer of black cotton. I can feel the individual muscle fibers, the tendons like steel cables, the sheer immovable solidity of him.
My fingers don't even come close to wrapping around it. I try anyway, attempting to make the gesture look casual and affectionate, like this is something I do all the time, like I'm accustomed to touching someone who feels less like a human being and more like a tank made of meat and bone. The sheer size of him is almost absurd this close up, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how small my hand looks against his arm, how delicate my fingers appear splayed across that expanse of solid muscle.
