“I’ll take the chair.” He brushes his lips across my forehead.
I slide my eyes closed, taking in his touch. Forehead kisses are underrated. After several deep breaths, I pull back. “No way you’re sleeping on a plastic gummy bear.” Never thought those words would ever come out of my mouth. “There’s room on the bed for both of us.”
“You sure? You’re acting a bit weird.”
Of course he would think my strange behavior is because of our sleeping arrangements. “Weirdness is ninety percent of my personality.” Apparently the other ten percent is impulsivity, considering I offered up my Garrick before I could clamp my mouth shut. I could knock on Candace’s door and say I’ve made a colossal mistake, ask for my antique back. But the expression of unbridled joy on her face when she saw the nativity set makes me pause. Her family has been through a lot.
Maybe I’ll feel better about it in the morning. I glance up at Leo. “I’m sorry I’m out of it. This day has been long.” In so many ways. “And yes, I’m sure. I trust you. I’m just not feeling my best right now.”
“You need sleep.” He guides me to the bed and turns down the comforter and sheet.
I scoot onto the mattress, and he tucks me in with such care that my heart squeezes. He kisses me softly, then grabs another blanket from the closet. It’s about half his size, but he doesn’t seem to care. I hear him move to his side of the bed, the mattressdipping with his weight. He stays above the covers, and I’m touched at his sweetness in respecting my space.
“Goodnight, Greta,” he says and switches off the lamp.
“Night,” I whisper, but it’s a long time before sleep claims me.
In every rom-com I’ve watched where the story features the one-bed trope, the heroine always—always!—wakes up with her head on the hero’s chestorthey both rouse in a tangle of limbs.
I wake to an obnoxious knocking at the door.
Leo groans and flops onto his back, an elbow across his forehead. “Maybe they’ll go away.”
It seems Leo is not a morning person.
Another knock. “Breakfast,” an overly bright, feminine voice calls.
I blink until the room comes into focus. “Dorian the Deceitful forgot to mention breakfast service is included in the Sugar Rush package.”
Leo chuckles, his voice still rusty with sleep. He grabs his phone off the nightstand. “It’s only seven. If we were really on our honeymoon, I’d be ticked.”
I fight against a blush. “Think on the bright side. Maybe there’s waffles.” I get up and catch a glimpse of Gran’s tub. Last night’s events come rushing back—swapping the sets while Leo was in the shower, seeing the pure relief and happiness on Candace’s face, handing over a chunk of my heart. I roll my shoulders and open the door.
The chipper hotel person left one of those rolling tables by the door. I wheel it into the room. Leo’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking handsomely disheveled. I have no idea what myappearance is, but I’ve never exactly had that “I woke up like this” caption-worthy face.
I lift the stainless-steel dome lids like some French waiter. Shriveled eggs, hashbrowns that could pass for rubber pellets, and two bagels that haven’t been toasted are tossed onto the plates. I wrinkle my nose. “The Dough Ball food was so amazing, and this is …”
“Crap,” Leo finishes.
I nod. “I hope they don’t expect a five-star review with this breakfast.”
“Your vending machine idea has some merit.” He glances over, and I want to memorize the soft curl of his mouth. “Good morning, by the way.”
“Good morning.” I return his smile.
“You’re too far away.” He crushes me to him and breathes me in. “Your hair smells amazing.”
“That would be the provided vanilla-sugar shampoo. Very on-brand of them, I think.” I slip my arms around him. He has no clue how much I need this hug. After a long minute, he releases me, and I instantly miss his warmth. “Think the roads are all right?”
“Most likely. Trucks had all night to plow and throw down salt.” His gaze is a slow crawl over my face. “You seem sad.”
“I think I’m hungry.” And regretting life choices. You know, the usual.
He grabs his wallet and leaves to raid the vending machines, giving me a second to find my emotional equilibrium. I wash my face and brush my teeth with the toiletries from the hotel courtesy basket.
Leo returns with protein bars, pretzels, and Pop-Tarts—the three Ps of every balanced breakfast. We drink the orange juice that came with the meal, which does not mix well in the aftermath of bubblegum toothpaste. Lesson learned. We scarfdown our food and go to the lobby. Leo takes one glance at my current fashion statement, which I dub “hoodies and heels,” and wisely keeps any remarks to himself, though I do see him sneak a smile. He’s holding the tub of antiques, and I’m trying to imagine a way of telling him how I got the Vallerton that doesn’t involve my tears. Or me looking like a lunatic.
I’m drawing a blank.
