Page 10 of Whiskey & Wreckage

And toiletries. Nice ones. Luxe skincare, full-sized shampoo, conditioner, even a makeup kit. Things I’d never splurge on for myself.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare.

Thomas did this.

How the hell did he know my sizes?

And why?

It’s all too much. No one’s ever gone out of their way like this for me.

We just met. Last night. He doesn’t even know my middle name.

And yet… here I am, surrounded by comfort and kindness and expensive toiletries, wondering if this is real life or the start of some unbelievable story.

Eventually, my stomach reminds me that breakfast was several emotional breakdowns ago, and I should probably eat something that isn’t a croissant or the lingering taste of shame.

I stare at the bags on the bed and rifle through them again, still half convinced I hallucinated them. I pull out a pair of dark jeans that actually look comfortable, a soft navy blue top with these cute little flutter sleeves, and some nude flats that don’t scream “trying too hard.” It all fits like a glove, which, seriously, how the hell does Thomas know my sizes?

Some sort of private investigator voodoo. That’s the only explanation.

I towel-dry my hair again and tame the chaos with a few clips. I swipe on some mascara and a little tinted lip balm, just enough to look like I’m not emotionally hungover. When I check myself in the mirror, I do a double take.

I look... kinda nice?

Not like, “walking-the-red-carpet” nice, but “might-run-into-an-ex-and-not-feel-like-a-goblin” nice. And considering where I started the day, that’s a damn victory.

I head downstairs, suddenly hyper-aware of how fancy this place really is. Marble floors. Giant flower arrangements. Music that probably cost royalties to play. People pass me in business suits and heels and actual tailored outfits. But no one gives me weird looks. A few of the staff smile like I belong here.

It’s deeply unsettling.

“Looking for the restaurant?” the woman at the front desk asks, like sheknows.

I blink. “Uh, yeah. Just… hungry.”

She smiles like I just said something adorable and waves over a guy in a blazer, who walks me down the hall like I’m royalty. “Right this way, miss.”

Cordelia’s is… wow. It’s low lighting and linen napkins and waiters with actual wine knowledge. I’m not even seated yet andI already feel like I should apologize for being underdressed. But the hostess just leads me to a booth near the window and hands me a menu like it’s no big deal.

A waitress shows up not long after with a polite smile. “What can I get you to drink?”

I hesitate, my brain flashing to whiskey and peanuts and declarations of war against men. “Uh… iced tea. Just iced tea.”

She nods. “Coming right up.”

I order pasta because carbs are therapy, a house salad because I need something green in my life, and a cannoli because I refuse to believe in moderation tonight.

The food is stupid good. The pasta’s creamy and perfect, the salad is crunchy and fresh, and the cannoli? That thing probably has its own religion. I eat like I haven’t seen food in years, and for once, I don’t feel gross about it. I just feel… okay.

When the waitress comes back with the little black check folder, I reach for my purse, but she just waves it off.

“It’s been charged to your room.”

I blink. “Wait, how did you?”

She just gives me this smile like she knows secrets and walks away before I can finish the question.

I sit there a minute, stunned. Did Thomas do that too? Doeseveryonein this hotel know who I am? Is this some kind of undercover Bachelor episode?

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