Page 28 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Winnifred’s head snaps toward me so fast her ponytail nearly takes out a plant.Her eyes are narrow.Suspicious.Full of judgment.“You got the grand suite?”
I blink at the concierge, then at her, mentally scanning the last twenty-four hours like a man who definitely meant to pack socks and absolutely did not.
“I don’t remember requesting anything grand,” I murmur, already dreading whatever comes next.“Or a suite.”
“Booked through a company card,” the concierge offers, too helpfully.“Special couple’s package.Very romantic.”
Very romantic.
Oh, fuck no, there’s no romance here.
Winnifred turns to me with the slow, calculated menace of a woman who’s about to attack me in front of all the guests.
“You booked us a couple’s package?”
“No,” I say, with the firm conviction of a man clinging to the last shreds of plausible deniability.“I asked Gretchen to book two rooms.I was very specific.Very.”
“You booked a suite,” she hisses like I’ve committed the cardinal sin of fake-dating logistics.“The couple’s package.”
“That’s not what I asked for,” I say, but it sounds less like a defense and more like the prelude to a very embarrassing story.
She blinks.“Do you think they throw in candles and rose petals for single occupancy?”
Her voice drips with sarcasm, weaponized by years of experience in making me squirm.I start to defend myself but get mentally sideswiped by the image of rose petals and one of those chocolate-dipped strawberry trays by a heart-shaped tub.
Oh, fuck.
The concierge, bless his soul, chooses that moment to hand over a keycard with a flourish.“Everything’s been prepared to your preferences, Mr.Thorn.Enjoy your stay.Breakfast will be delivered to your room each morning unless otherwise requested.”
I clear my throat, already sweating.“Actually, is there a second room available?Separate.Not ...romantically curated.”
Winnifred leans in, fixes the concierge with her best moody glare.“We hate romance,” she deadpans, eyes dark with faux disdain.“We’re allergic to feelings.”
The concierge’s smile wavers ever so slightly, just enough to register the silent ‘help me’ blinking behind her eyes.“I’m afraid we’re fully booked for the weekend.There’s a wedding party and a wellness retreat taking up most of our standard rooms.”
“Right, but maybe something smaller?A broom closet?Laundry chute?I’m flexible.”
He taps at the keyboard again, hopeful fingers doing absolutely nothing to change our fate.“The Grand Terrace Suite is the only accommodation available.But it’s very spacious—two sinks, a separate seating area, and a balcony with skyline views.Very romantic.”
Winnifred turns her head slowly, theatrically, until she’s looking directly at me.Her expression is a masterclass in understated horror.“Boston skyline.Perfect.That way, when I shove you off the balcony, you can die with a view of traffic and poor parking decisions.”
“Right,” I say, still looking at the concierge and not at Winnifred.“Of course there is.Because why wouldn’t there be both matrimony and detox happening at the same time?Bring the two sinks.”
“I’m sure housekeeping can remove the rose petals,” the concierge offers as if that might somehow save me.“And we can take the strawberries?—”
“Don’t touch the strawberries,” Winnifred cuts in.“That might be the only thing that keeps him alive.”
A pause.
A single, delicate beat where I can practically hear her internal monologue debating whether to laugh or murder me first.
Winnifred makes a choked sound that I choose to interpret as her trying not to laugh—or possibly drafting my obituary in her head.
Her eyebrows lift so far I swear they try to make a break for her hairline.
“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” she whispers sweetly as we walk toward the elevators.“And then I’ll redecorate your house in tasteful mourning neutrals.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I mutter, gripping the keycard like it’s my last will and testament.
