At the hotel

The hotel lobby smelled like money—subtle notes of leather, polished wood, and something floral that cost more per ounce than Emily’s monthly student loan payment. Kevin strode toward the front desk with the easy confidence of someone who belonged here, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet. Emily trailed behind, her rolling suitcase wobbling on its cheap wheels, acutely aware of how her blouse clung to her back from the Atlanta humidity.

The clerk—a woman with a name tag that read *Danielle* and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—tapped at her keyboard with manicured fingers. "Ah," she said, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "There seems to be a slight issue with your reservation." Kevin’s brow furrowed as she slid a single keycard across the marble counter. "We only have one executive suite available tonight. The conference next door booked us to capacity."

Emily’s stomach dropped. "One room?" The words came out sharper than intended.

Kevin shot her an apologetic glance before leaning toward Danielle. "There’s nothing else? Not even a broom closet with a cot?"

Danielle’s smile tightened. "I’m afraid not, Mr. Holloway. Unless you’d like to try the Motel 6 by the airport?"

Kevin’s fingers tightened around the keycard as if it were a poker hand he didn’t know how to play. The silence stretched between them, thick enough to slice. Emily watched the muscles in his jaw twitch—once, twice—before he exhaled through his nose and turned to her with a rueful half-smile. "Looks like we’re roommates," he said, voice lighter than the situation warranted. The **** cheerfulness made her stomach flip.

Danielle slid a discreet glance between them, her manicured nail tapping the reservation screen. "The suite does have a pull-out sofa," she offered, as if that solved everything. Emily nodded mechanically, her mind racing through logistics—how far the sofa would be from the bed, whether the bathroom door locked, if the minibar was stocked with enough vodka to drown this particular brand of tension.

The elevator ride up was worse. Kevin stood ramrod straight, his reflection in the mirrored walls a study in controlled discomfort, while Emily focused on the ascending floor numbers like they held the secrets of the universe. When the doors slid open with a soft chime, she bolted out like the carpet was on fire.

The suite was all soft grays and muted golds, the kind of understated luxury that screamed corporate expense account. A king-sized bed dominated the space, its crisp linens mocking them. The promised sofa sat innocently near the floor-to-ceiling windows, currently folded into its pristine, non-bed form. Emily dropped her bag onto it with a thud. "I’ll take this," she announced, more to the skyline than to Kevin.

He set his briefcase down with deliberate care. "Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not sleeping on a fold-out." His tone brooked no argument, but Emily spun to face him anyway, arms crossed.

"And you are?" The words came out sharper than she’d intended. Kevin’s jaw tightened—she was learning that tell—but his voice stayed even.

"I’ve slept in worse." He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the desk chair with the same precision he used in board meetings. The spilled club soda had dried into an awkward patch on his slacks, the fabric stiff where it clung to his thigh. Emily’s gaze snagged there for a heartbeat too long before she jerked her attention to the minibar.

The ice bucket clattered as she wrenched it open. "We should go over the presentation." She grabbed two miniature vodkas without looking, her fingers closing around the cold glass like a lifeline.

Kevin’s phone buzzed against the marble countertop—his wife’s name flashing across the screen. Emily pretended not to see as he swiped it up with a murmured "I should take this," already retreating toward the bathroom. The lock clicked behind him with finality.