“Me?” His smirk drops. “I’m not the one whoalwaystries to have the final say.”
Well, there goes my half-assed plan to flirt with him this entire conference—tomess with him. I don’t need another reminder that he’s the same guy who’s stressed me out for the past two years. The very person who’s fought tooth and nail with me over every little thing.
My brain needs to remember that he’s not just the hot plane guy who’s super flirty or the hot nice guy who stopped me from having an anxiety attack. He’s also the evil hot coworker and soon-to-be hot former colleague.
On a side note, Ireallyneed to stop thinking about how hot he is. It’s doing me no favor at all.
“Right,” I say flatly, and I spare him a cool look as the elevator dings. “In your intro to psych class, this is what they’d call projecting.”
Without sticking around to hear his response, I grab my suitcase and slip out into the hallway. Neither of us says anything as we walk side-by-side to our suite. I don’t think I can go through another round of dodgy euphemisms. Or argue with him over spreadsheets and SOPs. He taps my shoulder, and I look over to see him tipping his head at the door to our right.
Thank God. I really want to take a shower and put some much-needed space between Carter and me, so I can gather my bearings and come to terms with the fact that weweregenuinely flirting with each other. In the most deranged way possible, but still.
He keys us in, and I freeze at the sight before us the moment he flicks the lights on.
There’s only one bed.
And a couch.
One massive bed with all the bells and whistles: fluffy pillows of various sizes, clean sheets that look like they’ve never beenused, and a complimentary basket placed on the corner filled with rolled towels, snacks, and what appears to be a handwritten note.
The couch has a dark stain on one of its two cushions.
In a room that’sdefinitelynot a suite. Not unless there’s a hidden room through the closet door that we’re just not seeing right now.
“There’s been a mix-up,” he says, streaking his fingers through his tousled hair. “Clearly. It’s not like they messed up when they booked our suite for us.”
They messedup when they booked our suite for us. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how often there’s always a fire at work, like the one time one of our coworkers accidentally deleted half of the reports from earlier this year before the big investor call. Or the time someone sent internal emails to clients, which then sparked the wholeis this insider trading? debacle.
Besides the mix-up, there’s no vacancy, no cancellation, and no other hotels in the nearby area. There’s a bed-and-breakfast that Ed’s staying at that’s not too far from here, but after a quick phone call, we got confirmation from a super apologetic clerk that the place has no rooms left for the night or the rest of the week.
I’m cranky. Beyond exhausted from the thirteen hours of flying and the two hours spent trying to find another room. I want nothing more than to shower, brush my teeth, and go to bed.
At this point, we both have to come to the same conclusion. We have to share the room tonight and hope someone checks out tomorrow morning. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we’restuck sharing the hotel room for the entire duration we’re here. This area is a bigger tourist trap than I’d expected. There’s no way anything will become available anytime soon.
“Thank you for beingsucha nice guy,” I begin, “and opting to sleep on the floor.”
“There is a couch right there,” he grits out.
“If you insist,” I say, and we both eye the stain at the same time. “You aresobrave?—”
“I’m not sleeping on the couch.”
“Oh, suddenly the floor is on the table again?” I ask. “Well, maybe the floor doesn’t appreciate being the second choice.”
“I’mtaking,” he says, enunciating every vowel, “the bed.”
“You can take the floor,” I reply curtly.
“I’m too tall for the couch.”
“Which is why the floor is the best choice for you. Look at all that space,” I say. “Prime real estate right there. It’s so roomy. Spacious. Perfect for you and that massive ego of yours.”
He scrubs his hand down his face for the fifth time tonight. “You would make a terrible real estate agent.”
“Good thing I’m not a real estate agent.”
“Nope.” A weary sigh escapes him as he looks up at the ceiling for a long moment. “You’re just my coworker, MalibuBarbie.”
