“I think I’m having an out-of-body experience,” I croak.
We replay every interaction, losing more control of ourselves with each one. Toasting to Martin on the patio. Aggressively brunching with him. Wedging him in a reluctant hot tub sandwich. “Ittotallyseemed like we were trying to bang him,” I gasp.
“God,” Grant says, wiping his eyes. When the hilarity burns off like fog in the sun, he looks at me with a pinched brow. “Do you think it’s someone else here? It’s only couples and they all seemed pretty normal to me, but … could we have been wrong?”
I shake my head. Contrary to my outburst earlier, even I have to admit that the other couples strike me as genuine. Well, mostly genuine.
“The Fiorellos are the only ones I’d call abnormal, but I’ve seen their follower count. They’d never risk their sponsorships with something as controversial as a killing spree.”
“Plus, that’s them over there.” He points down the hill, where the unmistakable silhouettes of Heather and Nicholas are arguing about the placement of their ring light for a nighttime photo shoot.
An owl hoots somewhere in the moonlit distance. The mingled sounds of jazz piano and laughter float softly from inside. Grant lifts his wrist to check his watch, and I suppress a grin. Of course he would wear his watch in the hot tub.
“I think it’s possible that no one’s going to try to kill us tonight,” he says.
I hoist myself up to reach for my robe, and pull my phone from its pocket. “Looks like you might be right,” I say, showing Grant the text we’ve just received from Lissa.
omg, slayer post was deleted! guess this one’s cancelled. oh well, enjoy the room! ;) x
Grant deflates with relief, and I decide I’ll deal with Lissa and her loaded winking later. For now, priorities: I have an unexpected night off. At a luxurious countryside inn. With the room and all its amenities being charged to a credit card that isn’t mine.
I chuck my phone back in my robe and face Grant.
“You want to go raid the minibar?”
His head drops back with a sigh. “Please yes.”
• • •
THE MINIBAR INour room is incredibly well stocked with everything from tiny wine bottles to nips of vodka and scotch.
Or it was, before it met us.
We’ve each showered and changed, and I’m toweling off my hair when Grant meets me outside the bathroom with his hands behind his back.
“Pick one,” he says, and I point to his left arm. He presents a tiny bottle of vodka. He must see in my face that it’s not my favorite, because he instantly hands me the whiskey instead.
“To having a murder-free night,” says Grant, lifting his bottle.
“To not having an orgy with Martin,” I say, clinking mine against his.
He nods. “Our loss, I’m sure.” We down our drinks, and Grant clears his throat.
“About the hot tub,” he says.
“All good,” I hurry to say, the whiskey burning down mythroat. I reach for another. “Our acting is getting better. We fooled Martin, anyway.”
He nods, giving me that look that makes me think if I try hard enough, I can see the thoughts at work behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he finally says. “A solid performance all around.”
There’s a beat of quiet that feels just a little too charged. Maybe it’s the eye contact. Maybe it’s the memory of his hands on me.
Finally, I say, “How do you feel about drinking games?”
He smiles. “I feel great about them.”
We start with Never Have I Ever, then move on to something like beer pong, although it’s really just each of us trying to throw a pillow mint into the other’s cup of wine. We both win. Or we both lose, I can’t be sure.
From there, the definition ofdrinking gamegets looser and looser. Wine Sort-Of-Pong turns into Tipsy Charades turns into Drunk Movie Reenactments. Grant memorizedThe Princess Bride’s “mawwiage” speech long ago. I grace him with a performance of “Love Is a Battlefield” à la13 Going on 30, jumping up on the bed to re-create Jennifer Garner’s kicky little dance complete with ponytail and makeshift scarf.
