My pillow smells like orange blossoms. Not the air freshener kind, but a leafy, peppery scent, shot through with the memory of summer. I burrow into it, my cheek pressing against a smooth and yielding shape. My arm is draped over a heavy, warm weight, holding it tight against my chest. The sheets are buttery soft against my skin.
A dull throb pulses in my left shin, a rhythmic reminder of my poor judgment, but it’s muffled, distant; it can’t reach me in my cocoon.
I exhale, sink deeper. The pillow beneath my head flexes, resists. And exhales back.
I go still. The world is hazy in that pre-wake state when my brain is buffering data while a dozen facts sprint into my skull at once: I am not alone in this bed. My pillow is a person. And the last thing I remember is stumbling into the bride’s room.
Fuck.
The buzzing of the door, followed by the click of an electronic lock being opened, jolts me fully awake.
My eyes snap open as Ashley, a hotel maid, walks into the bridal suite, her supplies cart squeaking as she pushes it through the doorway.
I jerk upright, noting that I’m sleeping on top of the covers in a wrinkled button-down shirt with no pants on.
“Oh! I—” Ashley stares, almost dropping the folded white towels in her hands, eyes oscillating from my face to the woman next to me, and then down to my state of undress. Her face goes from pale to a deep, violent shade of crimson. “Mr. Rockwood, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—the system said the room was empty—I had no idea?—”
“It’s nothing,” I croak, my voice a sandpaper rasp. I scrub a hand down my face to summon an ounce of the authority my last name usually commands. “Ashley, it’s fine. Could you put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, please?”
She nods frantically, already backing out. “Of course, sir. I’ll just—yes. Right away.”
I let my head fall back against the headboard and will myself to disintegrate.
My temples pound, a dull ache that pulses behind my eyes like a second heartbeat. I roll to my side of the bed, as far from Sleeping Bride as possible without falling off the mattress, and take stock.
She’s still asleep. Her breathing remains deep and even, a slow rise and fall that barely disturbs the sheets.
Her dark hair fans across the white pillows like spilled ink. In sleep, her face has softened, the furious tension from our arguments smoothed away. Her lips are parted, pink and full.
She’s using the hotel robe as pajamas, but the neckline has slipped under the covers, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and a hint of generous curves.
I avert my gaze so fast I give myself whiplash. Heat creeps up my neck. Not the feverish fuzz from the infection, but a baser, unwanted reflex.
The rest of the events from last night rush back to me in uncomfortable, cinematic clarity.
My father thinking I’m married to this woman. His pride. His talk of early retirement and me stepping up.
The rumor of my secret wife, now that Ashley has seen us in bed together, will spread even faster among the staff. She won’t have noticed I was sleeping on top of the covers. The tale she tells will be of me in my underwear wrapped around the bride—what did she say her name was? It starts with P. Penelope? Patricia? For whatever reason, I’m bothered that I don’t remember. She told me. I know she did. I said I liked it.
Tentatively, I shift my left leg.
Pain flares, but it’s nothing like last night’s agony. More of a deep, insistent ache, manageable if I don’t think about it too hard.
The bandage is new—clean white gauze wrapped from knee to ankle, a different kind of bandage that wasn’t in my amateur first aid kit. Vague memories flicker in the back of my mind. Lila’s voice, the sting of saline, hands holding me down.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, landing on my right foot, and test the left. My knee buckles slightly, protesting the weight, but it holds.
I search for my pants, then remember the polyester abomination I wore at the gala. Yeah, no, I’m not putting those on again.
The only thing left in the room with a bottom is the other hotel bathrobe hanging in the closet. I shrug it on and cinch the belt tight.
My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. I’m starving. Last night, I didn’t eat. I was too busy playing thedutiful son at the gala, schmoozing investors while my leg poisoned itself beneath those ridiculous pants.
I pick up the phone and order a breakfast spread. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, fresh fruit, the works. Enough for two because, well, she’s here. I tell room service to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign. Another sighting of me in the suite won’t matter at this point.
I hang up and pace to the window to stare out at the lake. It’s a cloudless October day that makes last night’s storm feel so distant. The water is glass. A single speedboat cuts across it, trailing a ribbon of white foam in its wake.
Behind me, sheets rustle.
