“Yes, please. Three rooms, if you have them.”
“I’ll just need to see some ID.”
I turn automatically, hand already extended for Mason to press my wallet into it. That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked. Mason handles the logistics—the credit cards, the identification, the endless paperwork of existing as a public figure. I just show up and smile.
But Mason isn’t there.
I blink at the empty space beside me, confusion rippling through the exhaustion. Mason is always there. Mason is the one constant in my universe, the fixed point around which my entire chaotic existence orbits. Where the hell?—
Atticus materializes at my elbow, smooth as silk. “Someone should have called ahead to set up the rooms. Probably under a corporate account?”
The woman frowns. “Let me check.” Her fingers tap across an ancient keyboard. “Ah, here we are. Three guests, one night. One room is okay, right?”
I blink at her. “It’s really not.”
“I’m so sorry, but the main floor is being renovated so we only have one room available right now.”
“One room.” I stare at her. “For three people.”
“It is our largest suite. King bed, pullout sofa, lovely harbor view.” She’s already pulling a brass key from a hook behind her. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. If you’d like, I can call around to some of the neighboring towns, but it would be at least three hours of driving?—.”
“It’s fine,” Atticus interrupts before I can spiral. “We’ll make it work.”
I want to argue. I want to demand they conjure additional rooms from thin air through sheer force of my personality. But I’m tired, and my bones ache, and somewhere between the emergency landing and the truck ride from hell, I’ve lost the energy to be difficult.
“Fine,” I echo. “One room. Whatever.”
Dorothy beams and slides the key across the counter. “Room 7, top floor. Breakfast starts at seven. And if you need anything at all, just ring the bell.”
I take the key and turn to find Atticus watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Where’s Mason?” The question comes out sharper than intended.
Atticus tilts his head toward the front door. “Still outside. He looked like he needed a minute.”
Through the lace-curtained window, I can see Mason standing on the porch, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid as stone. Even from here, something about his posture screams wrong.
“Something’s going on with him,” I murmur.
“Clearly.”
“He won’t tell me what.”
“Also clearly.”
I clutch the brass key tight enough that the teeth bite into my palm, trying to suppress my growing hurt. Mason is my rock. He’s always been as steady as an ocean liner on my churning sea. I’m not sure what I’m going to do if he is struggling and can’t be honest with me about it.
More importantly, what secret could be so big that he can’t share it with me?
Atticus grabs the key out of my hand before I can stop him, only winking when I glare. “At least one of us needs beauty sleep, firebird. Let’s get this show on the road.”
This is going to be a disaster.
SEVEN
DOMINIC
The tattooon my forearm catches another admiring glance from the blonde at table six.
