Page 17 of Moonlighter
“Can I show you to your suite?” the woman asks.
“We’d rather just go on up ourselves,” Eric says, holding out a hand for the key cards.
“Certainly. Your suitcases are already on their way.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as soon as the elevator doors close on us. “I can’t handle people right now.”
“I noticed that,” he chuckles.
“Usually I’m a great traveler. Another symptom of pregnancy is extreme exhaustion. Apparently growing an entire human takes a lot of extra energy.”
“Ah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve never tried that myself, so…” He runs a hand through his hair.
I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself. It’s the middle of the night back at home. I’m asleep on my feet right now, but anyone would be
Luckily, moments later Eric opens the door to a plush suite. I drag myself inside. And because this is a very nice hotel, our luggage is already waiting for us. I unzip my suitcase and pull out a nightgown along with my toiletry bag. Then I disappear into the marble clad bathroom ahead of Eric. But somebody has to go first, right?
After I’ve changed and brushed my teeth, I take a look in the mirror. My eyes are red, and my hair is messed. I look like a disaster. And when I turn my head, I catch sight of a red indentation on my jaw. Good lord. There’s a Lacoste alligator molded into my face from sleeping on Eric.
There is really no end to today’s mortifications.
After brushing my hair forward to hide the mark, I put on a brave face and leave the bathroom. Eric is in the bedroom, hanging his suit jacket in the closet. My sleep addled brain spends a few seconds remembering how fabulous he looks in a tux. In Florida, when I was trying to figure out why he kept glancing at me, I allowed myself a few glances of my own.
My old friend is seriously hot. As fake boyfriends go, he’s an A-lister.
“You should get some sleep,” he says with a glance over his shoulder. I’m obviously not the only one who thinks I look like a zombie right now.
“So should you,” I point out. Then I turn around and count the beds.
There’s only one.
Oh, dear. I should have seen this wrinkle coming.
But Eric isn’t the only one caught off guard today by Max Bayer’s security arrangements. I expected The Company would send a bodyguard with me to Hawaii. But I didn’t anticipate the ruse of a pretend boyfriend, so it hadn’t occurred to me to ask my assistant to change my travel accommodations. She always books a one-bedroom suite.
Oops.
Eric watches me with a smirk. “Maybe the living room couch folds out.”
I pad back into that room to check. The couch is a sleek, modern thing that’s low to the floor. I try to lift a cushion, but you can’t. The sofa is a monolith.
Well, this is awkward.
“It doesn’t fold,” I say when I return to the bedroom. “But it’s okay. We’ll share the bed.” And suddenly I don’t know where to put my eyes. I meant platonically, of course. But sharing a bed with Eric—under different circumstances, of course—isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever heard. “It’s large enough,” I mumble.
We both turn to glance at it at the same time. If possible, even more awkwardness sets in.
“I could call downstairs and ask them to send us up a cot,” he says, closing the closet door.
“That will never work,” I argue. “Because you would feel like a heel making the pregnant lady take the cot. And I would feel like a diva asking the six-foot-tall athlete to sleep there.”
“Six-two,” he corrects me.
“We’ll share the bed,” I repeat. I’m so tired right now I just need a tiny fractional part of the bed and I’ll be gone from this world.
“Fine. If I can pretend to be your boyfriend outside of this room, I suppose I can pretend to be a gentleman inside it.”
“Is it that much of a stretch?” I walk over to the nearest side, lift the covers and slide in.
