Page 29 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“Manifestation is dangerous.”
“What?”
“You asked for the illusion of romance,” she explains.“And now the universe has delivered it in eight hundred thread count.”
I sigh as we step into the elevator.“Just ...let’s see the room before you start drafting my obituary.”
She hums.“Oh, I already have.It’s very tasteful.Some might even say aesthetically moving.”
The suite is ...large.
And dimly lit.
And far too quiet.
And, as of two steps inside, clearly meant for one thing: seduction via corporate hospitality.
There’s a fireplace flickering in the corner.A heart-shaped fruit platter sits on the coffee table, flanked by a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.And front and center, surrounded by fluffy pillows and turndown service folded into origami swans, is a single, massive, king-sized bed.
Winnifred stops in the doorway.
I stop behind her.
Neither of us speaks.The silence grows sentient.
Finally, she speaks.Very slowly.Very calmly.“Oh.Look.One bed.”She sighs very dramatically.“How convenient.”
I blink.“It’s a big bed.”
She turns to me, expression neutral.“Is it big enough for your poor decision-making?”
“It’s not like I designed the room,” I say, stepping past her to set my bag down like that somehow makes this less awkward.“I told Gretchen to book something low-key for us.I didn’t realize low-key meant Fifty Shades of Beige.”
Winnifred crosses her arms, one hip cocked.“You know what this is?This is fake dating karma.You’re being punished for making me lie to your family while pretending not to be in love with me.”
I exhale, scrubbing a hand down my face.“We’re just sleeping.That’s all.”
“In one bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
She glances around.
“There is no couch.”
I look.
She’s right.
There’s a window seat.A small armchair that might fit half of me.And something that might be a decorative bench, but it looks about as comfortable as a steel ironing board.
“There has to be something,” I say.
“There is,” she says sweetly, striding over to the bed.“It’s this.It’s the one thing in this room that doesn’t look like a crime against lumbar support.”
Then she flops dramatically onto the mattress and sighs like she’s in a spa commercial, arms stretched overhead, the picture of shameless comfort.
“It’s fine,” she says, already pulling a throw blanket over her lap like she’s claiming territorial rights.“We’re adults.You won’t even notice I’m here.”
