My father could destroy him and there’s not a chance I could stop it. Two weeks ago I wouldn't have cared what my father did to some guy from Washington. Now the thought of it makes me feel physically sick.
And Napa will end and I’ll go to New York and he’ll go to Seattle, and this—whatever this is brewing between us—all of it has an expiration date stamped on it in bright red letters. The countdown is already ticking.
I'm starting to dread the version of my life that's waiting on the other side of this. The one where I'm back in my father's orbit, back in the plan, back to being the person who has everything mapped out and nothing that feels like tonight.
That scares me more than anything, because wanting things to last is how you get hurt. I know this. I've designed my entire romantic life around avoiding it.
Wild Isabelle would like to remind Rational Isabelle that we could just... see what happens. That not everything has to be planned. That maybe the box isn't as safe as I think it is, maybe it's just small.
Rational Isabelle points out that Wild Isabelle has been drinking and cannot be trusted with major life decisions.
Wild Isabelle suggests that Rational Isabelle is boring and should try having fun for once in her uptight little life.
This internal argument is getting out of hand. I need to cut myself off from the alcohol.
"You okay?" Alex says, glancing over at me. "You got quiet."
"I'm fine," I say, and I smile, and the smile is real even though thefineis absolutely not. "Just catching my breath."
He nods and bumps my shoulder with his, light and easy and casual, and the touch lands like a brand even through two layers of clothing.
The headliner finally takes the stage to massive applause. The crowd pushes forward, and in the shuffle Alex and I end up pressed closer, shoulder to shoulder, his arm warm against mine.
I should move. I should create space. I should do anything except stand here soaking up his warmth like a plant turning toward the sun.
"There has to be some sort of solution," I say, trying to keep my voice pleasant even though what I really want to do is put my head down on this very nice marble counter and sleep for twelve hours.
The hotel receptionist keeps clicking through her computer system, her expression shifting from apologetic to confused to deeply concerned. "I'm so sorry, I'm just not seeing where the error occurred in our booking system. Let me try refreshing..."
We're at the Huntington Hotel in San Francisco, which is gorgeous, with restored Art Deco elegance and the kind of quiet luxury that whispers old money. Mia, Jack, and Lark already headed up to their rooms.
Alex had volunteered to go park the car and grab both our overnight bags from the trunk, so I'd decided to check us in and get the keys. Simple. Easy. Except apparently the hotel made some sort of error and when Alex booked two rooms, they somehow only logged one.
One room. One king bed.
Of course. Because the universe has decided that tonight isthe night it's going to test exactly how much self-control I have left, and the answer is rapidly approaching zero.
"I'm so sorry," the receptionist says again, and she genuinely does look distressed. "I'm looking at the reservation history and I can see exactly where the error occurred in our system when the booking was entered. We're fully booked tonight for a medical conference, so we don't have another room available. But I can absolutely try to get you accommodated at our sister property across town. It's lovely, just opened last year..."
I suppress a groan. Across town will take at least forty-five minutes by the time we get back in the car, drive there, check in again, and find the room. It's one in the morning. I'm exhausted and I'm wearing shoes that seemed like a good idea eight hours ago and are now instruments of medieval torture.
"No, the king room is fine," I hear myself say, watching my last shred of good judgment pack its bags and leave. "We'll make it work. We're adults."
The receptionist looks visibly relieved. "Are you absolutely sure? Because I really can call over to the Prescott and get you set up there within the hour..."
"I'm sure," I say, even though I am the opposite of sure. "It's late, we're tired, it's fine."
She processes something on her computer, typing quickly, then produces two key cards and slides them across the counter. "You're in room 807. Eighth floor, turn left out of the elevators. Again, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience."
"It's not your fault," I say, taking the keys, and I mean it. It's not her fault the universe is conspiring against my self-control.
I turn to see Alex coming through the lobby doors, both overnight bags slung over one shoulder, whistling something under his breath. He spots me and grins.
"Hey," I say, walking over to meet him. "So there's a slight issue."
"How slight?" he asks, adjusting the bags.
I explain the situation—the booking error, the sold-out hotel, our options. He listens, his expression unreadable for a moment, and then lets out a low laugh.