"No car?" I repeated, doing my best impression of shock.
"Nope. Just me, standing on a sidewalk in Century City in a suit, sweating through my shirt inJanuary, trying to get an Uber. But for some reason, my account was flagged for fraud."
I picked up my wine glass to avoid his gaze, seeing flashes of Ethan in my mind, typing away on his laptop while laughing evilly. "What? That's... so weird."
"Right?" he said with a heavy sigh.
"I suppose you reamed out your assistant?"
He looked surprised. "My assistant? Nah. None of this was his fault. He's great."
My breath whooshed out with relief. That had been my biggest concern that some poor soul would get fired for our little revenge shenanigans.
"So anyway," Tristan continued, "I called around, scrambling for any kind of ride, desperate to get out of the goddamn heat. And the guy who finally picked me up? Get this. He showed up in a smart car."
Choking on my wine, all I could manage to do was repeat his words. "A smart car?"
"Yes. A smart car. Do you have any idea how small those things are?"
I nodded, trying my best to keep it together.
"Well, I am intimately aware of how small they are now," he muttered, "because I had to spendforty-five minutesfolded in half with my knees up to my ears, while this guy—who was very into musical theater, by the way—drove me through the city, hitting every traffic jam and singing the entire Les Mis soundtrack."
My lips were beginning to hurt from being pressed together so hard.
"Finally, I made it to the hotel. I thought my torture was over. Except, oh wait... there was no record of my reservation. And there were no other rooms available. It was some kind of mix-up where my reservation was actually at a lovely little place in Hollywood called the Sunset Inn."
I lifted my brows, knowing where the story was going. "Oh no."
He sighed, like this was causing him physical pain. "So back in the clown car I went to get to this other place, so I could spend the night in a lovely little room called the Red Light Romance Room."
That was it. I lost it, the laughter bubbling out of me at his exasperated expression. "No."
"Oh,yes." He dragged a hand down his face. "Heart-shaped headboard. A mirror on the ceiling. The works. And the worst part?"
Shaking my head, tears of laughter began to well up in my eyes. "I don't want to know."
"Oh, yes. You're going to hear it." He leaned in closer. "There was a hot tub. In the middle of the damn room."
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
"And let me be clear," he said, voice flat, "this was not the kind of hot tub that inspires relaxation. This was the kind of hot tubthat makes you deeply aware of how much bacteria exists in the world."
I was dying.
He took a long sip of wine. "The comforter was just as bad. I don't even want to think about the things that have happened on that comforter. I slept fully clothed on top of towels."
"Oh, my God," I wheezed.
"So needless to say, I barely slept, I was completely traumatized, and all I wanted to do was get home. But of course, my flight back was also screwed up."
I tilted my head, again feigning ignorance. "How so?"
"Well, I was supposed to fly first class, obviously, not because I'm a pretentious snob but because being six-foot-four in coach is downright painful. But when I arrived, my seat was just gone. Disappeared just like everything else."
I froze.
"And all of first class was booked solid, the only thing left the middle seat in the very last row of the plane, right by the bathrooms, where I was stuck between a guy who took off his shoes and a woman who ate an entire tuna sandwich mid-flight."
