Page 83 of Make the Play

“Alright, Walton. Where’s my room?”

I pause. “So, uhh, about that…”

Her eyes narrow, and she turns toward the hallway. The second she walks through the guest room door, she sighs. “No…”

“I swear to God, I ordered the mattress. It’s just not here yet.”

“There’s literally no bed.”

“There’s a frame,” I argue. “That’s like, eighty percent of the structure.”

“There are eight decorative throw pillows.”

“Those were a last-minute panic buy, don’t judge me.”

Her gaze slowly sweeps over the chaos, and then she groans loudly.

“What?”

She points. “There’s a nightstand mini fridge.”

“For your sparkling water.”

“And lavender pillow spray?”

“For your anxiety.”

Her head swivels slowly in my direction. “Did you googlehow to host a girl during a security crisis?”

“No,” I lie immediately. “I just guessed.”

Zoe gives me the kind of unimpressed look that has felled stronger men, but she doesn’t press. Instead, her attention shifts, and she walks toward the corner, stopping in front of the lamp.

Her fingers reach out to brush over the wrought iron vine curling up the stand—delicate carnations, painted gold, and glittering straight out of a vintage boutique nightmare.

“This new, too?”

I clear my throat. “Nah. Had it for years.”

She tilts her head and raises a single brow.

“Fine,” I grumble. “It was expensive, and it doesn’t match anything, but—” I gesture vaguely.

“It had carnations,” she finishes softly, fingers still tracing one of the tiny blooms.

I scratch the back of my neck. “Didn’t even think about it. Just saw it and clicked.”

She hums, quiet but warm. “It’s hideous.”

“Objectively.”

“But kinda sweet.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’sdefinitelya thing,” she says, lips twitching as she turns toward the flatpack boxes stacked in the corner. “What’s in those?”

“More furniture,” I admit. “Thought I could build a dresser. Or a chair. I don’t remember, I just panic-clicked half the website.”

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