Page 96 of The Americana Playbook

“What?”

I shake my head and step inside. “Nothing, it’s just… uh, wild to be here,” I lie.

“Why?” Parker asks. “You were here before. When you helped me pack by things.”

I follow her as she keeps walking. “Yeah, but this time, I’msleepinghere,” I whisper, looking around. “Are we staying in the Lincoln Bedroom?”

Parker snorts. “No. In the West Room. I’d rather sleep in a rat-infested motel, but Mom was pretty firm on this. I figured I’d pick other battles as long as you’re here.”

With my hands in my pockets, I let my eyes roam around the Residences as Parker leads me down a hall with closed doors.

“But,” she continues, “there’s a small issue with the room.”

“In theWhite House. How awful could it be?”

Parker halts in front of a door, slowly turning the knob. Still in the hallway, I peek in, my eyes drawn to the light shining through a large window flanked by thick curtains. They fall to the chair in the corner, the lamp behind it, the small table beside it. I step in, seeing another open door with marble floors beyond. I’m not sure what the issue is—nice light, smells good, ensuite bathroom…

Then it hits me.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t exactly ask for a blow up mattress. I didn’t really think about there being only one bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No,” Parker insists. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll put a pillow in the middle, and everything will be fine.”

I scratch my head.Yeah, a pillow isn’t really going to work for me.

“We’ll deal with it later.” Parker waves a hand. “You should probably get ready. We’re doing pictures before guests arrive.”

I toss my phone onto the bed beside one of Parker’s small travel bags. “What’s this?” I’ve barely touched the metal, rectangular contraption with the chain before Parker snatches it.

“It’s a lock.” She stuffs it into the pouch.

“A lock?”

“Yeah. An extra one. You wedge it into the door. It makes it pretty hard to break in.”

“Break in?” I circle my eyes around the room. “You’re worried about that here?” I ask, but then it hits me. I look at the chain hanging out of the pouch and now I know where that sound was coming from. “You use that at home?”

“I use it wherever I sleep.”

“Parker—”

She takes the pouch, zipping it shut and placing in the dresser. “Why don’t you go get ready?”

I shake my head, stonewalled again and then move to the closet. When I open the door, I expect to find my suitcase on the floor.

“Did you unpack for me?”

“Just doing my spousal duty,” Parker sings. “Put in a good word for me with the next guy, would you?”

I grip the knob of the closet door so hard it’s a second away from cracking off the hinge. From behind comes the sound of Parker’s feet padding across the rug and the pull of a zipper.

I turn around, seeing her sifting through a small pouch, then pulling out a brush before she sits down on the bed.

“What?” Parker asks when she finds me staring. “Are you okay?”

My jaw tightens. Between the kiss and the walling up hours before our engagement party, I don’t find the thought of entertaining other people funny, and I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend to.

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