Page 19 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

ELEPHANT BED

Hazel

This can’t be happening.

I should be prepared—I’ve written this story, the one where the protagonists have to share a room—and yet I’m not.

My cells shake as I stare at the sign on the oak door of the sleeping quarters, pronouncing us husband and wife once again.

What’s the appropriate reaction when the heroine walks into the small-town bed-and-breakfast and discovers she’s been booked into the last room in the inn with Mister McGrump?

I riffle through the plotting notebooks in my head. The heroine should say with a smile, There must be a mistake .

But the words that rocket out of my mouth are: “Are women not allowed to be single anywhere?”

It’s better than the other things circling through my head, like oh shit, no way, and please tell me there are two rooms hidden away behind that door, with two separate beds , and two separate everythings .

Axel clears his throat as if he’s getting his bearings too. “We can dismantle the patriarchy another time. First, let’s straighten out what is probably a simple booking error.”

“Right!” I cling to this idea. “I’m sure there are plenty of other compartments on the train. Amy said we have two cars for our group.”

“Exactly.”

“And I can stay near the readers. I’m sure there’s an empty compartment. It’ll be fine,” I say, so amenable, so willing. Because I can’t sleep near him while I’m experiencing these acute symptoms of lust.

“Or I can,” he offers, eager too.

I hook my thumb toward the door of the car, where we’d last seen our guide. “I can go find Amy and tell her.” I poke my head around the corner and peer down the aisle. She’s still chatting with the train guy. “I bet she’s sorting it out right now.”

I’ve adopted the cheeriest tone possible. I am going to positive-attitude my ass off on this trip.

“I’m sure that’s it.” Axel glances at the door of our assigned compartment. “But we should check out the accommodation anyway. Maybe it’s a two-bedroom with an adjoining living room?”

There are ten gallons of hope in his voice too. Good. We’re on the same page.

“In that case, we won’t have to make a fuss,” I say.

“Exactly,” he agrees. “I don’t want to give Amy a hard time with problems this early.”

“Totally. I feel the same.” Nor do I want our tour group to think anything has gone wrong with the trip.

No one wants to witness their hosts negotiating for separate sleeping quarters or changing up a travel plan. We might look like divas making a scene. If we can manage with this suite tonight, it’ll be for the best.

Axel grabs the handle, turns it, and steps inside.

Please, please, please, let that door open into a spacious suite.

With my heart in my throat, I step gingerly across the threshold, then peer around.

We’re in a tiny anteroom, maybe five by five.

But there’s a tiny blue velvet sofa situated under the window.

Blessed piece of furniture. I could kiss it.

If this were my own suite, I’d imagine lounging on the tiny love seat at dawn, feet tucked under me, hoodie on, working on my current novel while the sun rose.

But instead, that glorious couch is going to fulfill a higher calling. It’ll save me from living out a trope. I pat the armrest. “This looks fine as a last resort. I could sleep here if I had to,” I chirp.

Ack! My voice sounds like a freaking chipmunk’s. Clearing my throat, I try to modulate my tone. Cool Hazel, rather than Helium Hazel. “It’s probably a fold-out sofa,” I add in a baritone.

Great. Just great. I’m a dude now.

“Yes! Of course!” Axel says, and I’m pretty sure he spoke with exclamation points for the first time in his life. He marches to the sofa and lifts a cushion.

With a wince, he turns back to me, shaking his head. “Just a regular sofa,” he says in a strained voice. “But maybe there are two rooms?”

“I’m sure there are!” I flap my arm toward the white scalloped door.

I hold my breath as we head toward it. He flashes me a nervous look.

I’ve hardly ever seen Axel looking nervous.

We reach for the door handle at the same time and touch each other’s hands.

Oh, that’s nice.

That’s the problem, though. I snatch my hand away. “You go first,” I say quickly.

He tosses a what gives glance at me. But isn’t it obvious why I yanked my paw away? He doesn’t want me to touch him, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. We’ve made progress over the last twenty-four hours. I don’t want to regress.

He slides open the door then mutters, “Oh fuck.”

There’s. Only. One. Bed.

It’s not even a big bed.

It’s queen-size.

I stare too long. My mind has stalled on images of Axel whipping off his T-shirt one-handed, unbuttoning jeans, sliding under that white duvet wearing only snug black boxer briefs.

Giving me a come-hither look. Growling, “Ride me, baby.”

Axel is staring at the bed too, like he’s caught in a trance. Or maybe he’s confused.

Meanwhile, my dirty, filthy, sex-starved brain is stuck on repeat as I imagine him beckoning me with his finger. “C’mon, sweetheart, you know you want it,” he’d say.

I do, I do, I fucking do.

Dammit.

I need ice. I spot a bucket for it on a table in the corner, but it’s probably empty, so no point jamming my head into it.

I hunt for words to handle the situation, but the best I can manage is, “Why aren’t there any bunks?”

Axel knits his brow. My odd question seems to have knocked him out of his what-the-hell haze. “Bunks?”

Bunks would have been a decent solution. Bunks are for siblings. Bunks are for roomies. Bunks aren’t for lovers.

“Bunks. Like one on top of the other.” Great, I made that sound dirty.

His lips twitch. “I know what bunk beds are. But you thought the train would have bunk beds?”

This digression is safer than talking about that tantalizing bed calling out to me.

“I pictured a little compartment with one bed here,” I say, demonstrating with my hand about two feet high, then I move it up six feet.

“Then one above it. I was going to put my suitcase on the lower one and sleep on the upper one.”

“You had this all mapped out. Your bunk bed fantasy,” he says, and he can’t stop grinning.

But we need to discuss the elephant in the room—tonight’s accommodations. “Anyway, like I said, I’ll sleep on the sofa.” I need to make it crystal clear that I don’t expect this travel snafu to play out like it would in a romance. “We don’t have to share a bed like in a book.”

This is life and we’ll solve it like real life, not fiction.

But he’s not looking my way. He’s staring out the window. Then he pulls his gaze back to me. “I know that, Hazel,” he says, sounding half stern, but half hollow too. “I know this isn’t one of our stories,” he says as footsteps grow louder.

“Knock, knock.” Amy’s voice calls out.

“Come in,” I say, grateful for her return and certain she’s here to tell us she found another compartment.

But her face says no such luck . Her face says I tried and I’m so sorry . “The JHB Travel Manager was telling me about the error with the booking agency. I’m so sorry, but he assures me we can get it cleared up by tomorrow.”

“Oh great,” I say, relieved we only have to deal with this problem for one night. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“ I’ll sleep on the couch,” Axel cuts in.

Amy stares at the couch, quizzically. “Oh, that’s so thoughtful of both of you, but that couch is more like a chair. You’d have to curl up into a Border Collie-size dog ball to sleep on it.”

Her dog-size comparison seems spot on as I regard the furniture. I’d have to fold up my arms and legs and wind around myself a few times. Axel’s several inches taller than I am. He’d be a pretzel if he slept there.

Amy gives a quick, decisive nod. “But I have another solution.” She pats my arm. “Just take my room, Hazel. I’ll sleep in a train seat.”

“What?”

“It’s no problem. A regular seat will work fine.”

“No. That sounds miserable.”

“I’m a single mom. I have two young kids at home. The second I close my eyes,” she says, then snaps her fingers, “I’m down for the count.”

I can’t let a single mom who’s away from her kids sleep uncomfortably.

“That won’t be necessary, Amy,” Axel says, like a ship captain steering the boat through dangerous waters. “I’ll sleep in a regular seat on the train.”

He sounds so gallant, so willing. And that’s hot too.

I’m unfairly turned on by his offer.

What is wrong with my traitorous libido today?

I’ve got to get my mind out of the gutter. “Or you and I could share this compartment and Axel could take yours?” I ask Amy, but that sounds weird too.

Like we’re all just playing musical beds.

She holds up her palms. “Whatever works. I just want you two to be comfortable. And I promise we’ll get this sorted out overnight.”

I gulp, then look at the couch. Then the floor. “I’ll sleep on?—”

“—I’ll sleep here in the anteroom. Amy, you enjoy your compartment,” Axel says. Firm. Businesslike. A declaration.

We’ll slumber in separate rooms, elephant-free.

The next hour is spent in icy politeness in our compartment as we get ready for dinner.

Squeezing awkwardly past each other with excuse mes and thank you s, we navigate suitcases, and the bathroom, and the anteroom that connects the bedroom and bathroom.

Alone in the bedroom, I text TJ. I need a distraction, so I update him with the news that my life is so meta, I’m living in a book and will he please press control-alt-delete to set me free.

He replies with gifs of people cackling. He can be such an asshole. I love him to pieces.

But the chat only distracts me for so long. As I button my blouse in the bedroom, behind the closed door, I picture Axel changing for dinner in the anteroom.

Tugging on a shirt. Buttoning it up. Zipping up slacks. I fight off the desire to peek.

Maybe the elephant isn’t gone. Maybe it’s growing.