Clare stood in the hotel doorway staring at the single bed as if it had personally betrayed her.
Behind us, footsteps and voices drifted through the corridor.
Somewhere near the elevators, Lauren was laughing.
I could recognize that laugh after three years.
It was the polished one she used when she wanted everyone nearby to know she was having a better evening than they were.
Clare still had my hand.
Neither of us seemed interested in acknowledging that.
“Tell me there’s another room,” she whispered.
I leaned around her and inspected the space as if a second mattress might be hiding behind the curtains.
“Maybe the minibar converts.”
She turned slowly.
“Marcus.”
“I’m exploring solutions.”
The footsteps came closer.
Clare pulled me inside and shut the door just as Lauren’s voice passed in the hallway.
For several seconds, we stood with our backs against the door.
Then Clare looked at the bed again.
“I booked two queens.”
“I believe you.”
“I specifically booked two queens because I knew this entire weekend was already a terrible idea.”
“That was responsible.”
“Why are you so calm?”
Because I had spent most of the rehearsal dinner sitting beside a woman I had quietly wanted for more than a year while she wore a fake engagement smile and rested her hand on my knee every time someone asked how we met.
One bed was not the most dangerous thing in that room.
I took off my suit jacket.
“I’ll take the chair.”
Clare looked at the narrow upholstered armchair in the corner.
“You’re six foot two.”
“Furniture is my field.
I’ll negotiate with it.”
“You’ll wake up folded like a pocketknife.”
“I’ve had worse jobs.”
She finally smiled.
The tension should have broken.
Instead, her eyes followed me as I loosened my tie, and something quieter replaced it.
I looked away first.
Clare called the front desk.
The hotel was full because of the wedding.
No spare room.
No rollaway bed due to fire regulations.
Someone apologized three times in the careful voice of a person who understood perfectly well that apologies did not create mattresses.
When she hung up, she dropped the phone onto the nightstand.
“One bed,” she said.
“We established that.”
“I’m processing.”
“Take your time.”
She pointed at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying your outrage at a piece of furniture.”
“Of course you would side with the furniture.”
That made me laugh hard enough that the nerves finally loosened from both of us.
We agreed I would start in the chair.
Clare disappeared into the bathroom to change.
I stared out the window and reminded myself of the rules.
One weekend.
Fake fiancé.
