“This says Monday.”
“I know.”
“Monday. As in, next Monday.”
“Yes.”
I stare at the screen, then at her. “I thought we were flyingback Friday.”
“Why would we fly back Friday?”
“Because...” I do the math in my head. “Leave today, wedding’s Thursday, fly home Friday. Three nights.”
She’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Rodriguez. Who gets married on a Thursday?”
“I don’t know. Why would I know anything about why people get married when they do!”
“The wedding is Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
“Yes. Saturday. Like a normal wedding.”
Oh.
Oh.
“So we’re going early to spend time with my family,” she continues, “and staying Sunday after because my aunt wants to do brunch and my mom’s making a whole thing about it.” She takes her phone back. “Is that a problem?”
Is it a problem?
I thought I was signing up for three, maybe four nights max. Fly in, be charming, make her ex jealous, fly out. Totally manageable.
She’s talking about six nights.
Six full nights in Toronto. Six nights of pretending to be her boyfriend in front of her entire family. Six nights of wedding events and family dinners and oh holy shit, we’re going to be sharing a hotel room. For six nights. Six nights in the same room as Juliette Chastain. Six nights of trying to be a gentleman while she’s probably wearing pajamas or whatever she sleeps in and I’m supposed to just act normal about it. Six nights of watching her get ready in the morning and seeing her with her guard down and pretending this is all fake when?—
My throat is suddenly dry and I take a huge sip of coffee to tamp down the panic, draining half of the cup in one go. It burns going down but at least it’s something to focus on besides the fact that I just agreed to share a room with her for almost a week.
She’s looking at me all concerned now, already tensing up likeshe’s preparing for me to back out. “Because if you can’t do the full week, I understand?—”
“No.” The word comes out way faster than I intended, almost too loud. “No, it’s fine. Totally fine. I’ve got the Olympic break, remember? Nothing but time.”
“You’re sure? Because that’s almost a full week and I know that’s?—”
“I’m sure.”
And I am. Because yeah, this is way more than I bargained for. Way more complicated, way more time, way more opportunities for me to screw this up or say something stupid or let her see how much I actually like her.
But it’s also six nights. Six nights where she has to let me in. Six nights to prove I’m not just some guy hitting on her, where I’m not competing with her walls or her schedule or her determination to keep me at a distance.
Six nights feels like winning the lottery.
“Okay.” She looks relieved. “Thank you. I know this is a lot.”
“It’s not a lot.” Total lie. This is so much. “Tell me everything about this week?”
“My parents are going to ask you a lot of questions. They’re protective. Especially my dad.”
