Page 16 of Loathing My Boss
Bed.
Framed by two narrow hanging spaces for clothing, a single, large, king-size bed takes up the majority of the room.
Our neighborwhinnies, proving that only half the stalls in this mammoth barn have been refurbished for humans to use. The other half is filled with horses.
When Viktor confirmed our room number, I assumed it was asuite, withmultipleactual bedrooms.
Not a single horse stall smaller than the Bachelor household’s tiniest half-bath.
This is not Viktor’s genre. This is notmygenre.
This is romcom.
And I do not appreciate it.
Cautious, I slide my attention toward Viktor, whosegrip on his suitcase looks lethal. Anger—fury—unlike anything I have ever witnessed onanyBachelor brother before paints him in terrifying shades.
My stomach dips.
Wow.
That’s…painfully reassuring.
To think nothing I’ve done hasevergotten this man upset. Wild. Crazy. Insane. This would not have happened hadIbooked our rooms. Notice theplural? Silly Viktor. Hopeless without me. This is what happens when he tries to do things by himself. He gets dehydrated andonly one bed.
Do I dare poke the livid man and shed light on that wee truth?
Absolutely don’t mind if I do.
As it stands, this is a perfect opportunity for misery. I know romcoms. I’ve seen at least one and read a handful in my time. I know the beats. I know the steps. I know thetropes.
And only one bed?
It’s aclassic.
“It’s okay, Mr. Bachelor,” I say, crouching to run my fingers through the soft white rug taking up most of the free floor space in front of that singular sleeping slab. “I’ll sleep here.” His hackles rise when I beam up at him. “It’s thick and soft. Cozy.”
“Absolutely not,” he grits, teeth bared. Turning on his heel, he growls, “I’ll get this sorted out. They’ll get us our own rooms if they have to build one from scratch.”
“Please don’t bother the staff,” I blurt. “It’s fine. You’re probably the most well-known author here. You don’t want to taint your image by yelling at some poor worker who likely had nothing to do with this mixup, do you?” When he spares me a glance, I look my most urgently pleading. “I really don’t mind the floor. It’s like camping.”
Breath abandons him, and his gaze slashes across me before his Adam’s apple bobs. Choked, he says, “Crisis…it doesn’t matterwhereeach of us sleeps in here. We can’t share a bedroom.”
Ah ha. See? That’s the attitude I’m relying on.
Viktor Bachelor is many things—including a soul-crushing destroyer of dreams—but he is also most explicitly a gentleman.
Tilting my head, I flatten my hands against my thighs. “It’s not the eighteenth century, Mr. Bachelor. I don’t think a man and a woman sharing a room will cause half the scandal and discomfort as you growling at the workers in charge of this retreat event.”
Voice enigmatic, deep, and gravelly, he says, “I would becordial.”
“Sir, you are not sounding verycordialright now.”
“Crisis. Please. Get off the floor.”
I cross my arms against my chest. “Part of my job is protecting your image.”
“My image can burn in—” he swears.
