My head snaps up.
One room.
Tom turns toward me, room key in hand.
I cross the lobby in four steps. "One room?"
"I changed the reservation," Tom says calmly.
"What?"
"Aldridge booked us under the developer's corporate account. If we check in as VIPs, the staff will put on a show for us. I want to see how they actually run events, not how they perform when they know they're being evaluated." He pockets his wallet. "I swapped it to one room under my personal name. We're just a normal couple at a gala. We blend in."
I stare at him. My pulse is hammering in my ears and I can't tell if it's anger or panic or something else entirely.
"You could have told me before we got here."
"Would you have come?"
"That's not—"
"Don't worry. I asked for two beds."
Heat floods my face. "That's not the point—"
He's grinning now. Full teeth. Eyes crinkling at the corners. "I told the front desk clerk I needed two beds because you snore like a chainsaw."
"I do NOT—"
"Prove it."
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
He's still grinning.
I turn on my heel and walk toward the elevator, pulse still pounding, face still burning. I hear his footsteps behind me.
The elevator doors close. We're alone.
I press the button for the third floor and watch the numbers climb. My reflection stares back at me in the brushed metal doors—flushed cheeks, tight jaw, hands clenched around my bag strap.
"You should've asked me first," I say quietly.
The grin is gone. "You're right. I'm sorry. I was thinking tactically, not... collaboratively."
I glance at him. He's watching me, and there's no deflection in his expression. Just acknowledgment.
"That's a pattern with you."
He exhales through his nose. "I know. I'm working on it."
I let the silence sit for three floors' worth of elevator hum.
"Okay," I say finally.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. But next time—"
