Page 93 of The Publicity Stunt

“I never said you can’t.” The elevator doors slide open and he heads inside, prompting me to do the same. “Doesn’t mean you need to.”

The doors open on the twenty-second floor and he grabs my suitcase, dragging it along the carpeted hallway toward our room. We reach the front door and he taps the key card over the reader. He bumps the door open, stepping inside, stopping short immediately.

I walk into his back. “What …” My voice trails off.

“I swear, I didn’t know about this,” he blurts out while I’m still trying to register the fact that there is a single bed smack in the middle of the room—a single twin bed. The sirens in my brain go off. Neither one of us takes another step inside, both waiting for the other to initiate.

“Okay, I’m going to fix this.” I panic. “I’ll just … I’ll go down to the front desk and ask that receptionist to suggest a nearby hotel.”

I spin around and Parker grabs my wrist, and a zing of electricity shoots up my spine. “You’re not doing any such thing,” he asserts.

“Parker, there’s one bed.”

He looks at the bed, then back at me, and lets go of my hand. I fight the urge to pull him back. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Really? Sure seems like it.

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.” He nudges his head toward the five-feet-something pink suede couch. “And we can figure out the rest in the morning.” Taking one long stride, he places my bag on the luggage stand and set his own backpack down next to it.

There was a time when sharing a bed wouldn’t have been such a big deal for us, but it is not tonight. Not when all I want him to do right now is pick me up like a sack of potatoes, fling me onto that mattress, and spend the next hour or so with his head between my legs. What is wrong with me?

“No.” I walk inside. “This is my screw-up. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“April,” he groans, turning around, rubbing his eyes like this is the most tedious conversation he’s ever had. “This isn’t up for discussion. You’re taking the bed.”

I scoff, march to the couch, and place my purse on top of it, looking back at him with my hands on my hips, a triumphant smile across my face.

“What?” he says.

“I’m taking the couch.”

“Actually, you’re not.”

“What is your problem? It’s just for a few hours. I have to be up early anyway.”

“All the more reason you’re not sleeping on the couch.” He turns around and unzips his bag.

“But I’m tiny.”

He stifles back a laugh. “No one is contesting the difference in our sizes, Chere.” He takes out a pair of loose black shorts. “I’ve slept in way more cramped spaces for much more than just five hours,” he tells me. “A couch in a five-star is child’s play.”

My frown—pout? frout?—deepens. “Can you stop being such a man right now? If it was you who’d messed up, you would offer up the bed to me, and you know it.”

“True, but since it wasn’t your fault, I don’t think you get to play that card,” he says. “And even if the tables were turned, don’t act like you wouldn’t have been just as stubborn as you’re being now.”

I plonk down on the couch and scoff, my palms sinking into the seat cushions.

“Okay, how about this?” Parker takes one step toward me. “Since you get the bed, I get to shower first. How’s that for compromise?”

Eyeing him for three seconds, my face softens into a faint smile. “Fine. That sounds fair.” Hayden Parker has known me, April Moore, for over half my life. Most of the time he knows exactly what I’m thinking or what’s going on in my mind, solely by the glint in my eyes or the sudden change in my tone. It’s like in that movie,Minority Report. He knows what I’m about to do before I actually do it. But maybe, hopefully, he’s starting to lose his touch. Because my left eye just twitched and my smile just widened, and judging by the dumbfounded expression on his face, the poor boy has no fucking clue what evil plans are brewing in my head.

He narrows his eyes and starts walking toward the bathroom, not averting his gaze from mine, presumably trying to figure out why I’m now smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Giving me one last lingering look, he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

By the time his slow brain catches up, the deed is already done. All the lights have been switched off except for the orange lamp near the TV, and I’m lying on the couch, tucked underneath the throw blanket, with my iPad in hand.

The bathroom door swings open and—fuck me. He’s not wearing a shirt.

“April, I swear to God—”