Page 41 of The Fake Dating War

Me? I prefer access to everything.

A man who appears to be in his forties mans the hotel reception desk. He’s currently busy with another guest, so Patel and I wait in line.

“You need your own room,” she snaps.

“I would certainly hope so.”

“Let me handle this,” she says, in a tone that heavily implies I’ve already messed everything up, so I need to step back. Ungrateful view of things, considering I’m the one here pretending to date her. Not out of the goodness of my heart, but as an unintended consequence, it helps her out, too.

The reception desk becomes free. Patel charges forward, and I think she’s about to snap at him, too, but then I see her expression sweeten. It shouldn’t impress me how good she is at that, switching modes based on her audience, but it does.

“We need another room, please.”

“I’m sorry,” says Ahmed, according to his name tag. “We’re booked up.”

“Are you sure? There must be something you could do.”

“We’re hosting an Indian wedding this week,” he says to the woman wearing Indian clothes in front of him. “We are very busy.”

Patel isn’t fazed. Her skills have been honed by many disgruntled clients over the years. If you look closely, you see the very second she switches gears again. Her shoulders draw back. Stern Authority Patel is taking over.

“It’s my sister’s big Indian wedding,” she states. “I’m part of the immediate family, so I’m asking as someone who has given you a lot of business this week, if you could find us another room.”

The man chews on his lip, caught unaware by the change in direction. “Yes, but the whole block reserved for the wedding is booked. And any other room is for walk-in guests…”

Poor man, he’s left himself open. She now knows there are free rooms. I sense she’s about to launch an offensive and it will undoubtedly be applause worthy, but I need a shower.

I pull out my wallet, peel out a bill, and place it on the counter. “I need my own room.” I put another large bill down. “For your discretion. If anyone asks, I’m sleeping with her.”

Beside me, Patel jolts. “Wearetogether,” she says, jutting her chin out. “He’s just shy.”

I snort, unable to stop myself.Shy?

Ahmed takes my money and scrutinizes Patel. “Are you really the bride’s sister?”

At that question, she looks a bit winded. “I can show you ID,” she says with a wounded, defensive note. That particular tone is a first for me, and so was seeing her deal with her family. Patel in the outside world doesn’t seem as indefensible as she is in the office. Why?

“No ID needed. It’s fine.” He goes to his keyboard, and after a bit of searching, a free room becomes available. After I process the rest of the payment on my credit card, the room key is given over. This week is going to cost me money, but if—once—I sign the whale, it won’t matter. The numbers will work.

Turning around, I see Patel’s hand remains attached to my luggage.

Sensing my attention in that direction, she says, “Trust me when I say you don’t want to touch this handle. It has henna paste all over it. Let’s go.”

And with that, she’s leading again. Fairly soon after, I watch her get disoriented by the signage. When I mention she’s taken a wrong turn, she huffs at me before turning around. Still mad then.

As soon as we find the room, and I unlock it with my key, she barges inside before I can stop her. Letting go of the luggage, she spins around to face me. The motion makes the fabric of her traditional outfit float. It’s a striking purple color edged in velvet, and full of embroidered flowers. The top looks to be more of a loose dress. The pants are straight-legged but also stitched with those blues, yellows, and pinks. This is the most color I’ve ever seen her wear.

She reminds me of a garden.

I can’t stop looking. It ensnares me.

“Why are you really here?” she snarls. “Are you here to humiliate me as some sort of revenge plot for the bonus? Because if so, you can leave right now.”

I sit on the bed and start taking my dress shoes off. “If you wanted me gone, you should have said something before I paid downstairs.”

“What’s your angle?”

I think about pushing her buttons since this is what we do to each other, but the woman in front of me is tense enough to unravel if I pull on the wrong thread. I don’t care to deal with that. That’s why I stop myself. Not because she looks tired.

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