"Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "I mean, what are the odds? Of course this would happen tonight."
"Right?" I say, and I find myself smiling, despite everything. "The universe has a twisted sense of humor."
"A twisted one," he agrees. "Well, don't worry. I'll sleep on the floor, there's probably extra pillows. I've slept in worse places."
"You don't have to sleep on the floor," I start to say, then realize how that sounds and course-correct immediately. "I mean, the floor in a hotel like this is probably clean but still weird. You could just... we could put pillows between us? Like a middle school sleepover?"
He grins. "Relax, I don’t mind the floor. Gentleman, remember?"
"I'm going to push you into the elevator," I say, but I'm smiling.
We head toward the elevators and the whole ride up is silent except for some truly terrible jazz playing through the speakers. We're standing on opposite sides of the elevator car, a solid four feet of space between us, both studiously looking at the numbers ticking up. Fifth floor. Sixth floor. Seventh floor.
We are two adults who can share a room for one night without it being weird. People do this all the time. Colleagues traveling for work. Friends who missed the last train. Perfectly normal, perfectly platonic room-sharing.
Wild Isabelle would like to point out that there is nothing platonic about the way he looked at me on that dance floor.
Rational Isabelle tells Wild Isabelle to shut the hell up and focus on survival.
The elevator dings for the eighth floor and we step out into ahallway with plush carpet and warm lighting. I lead the way to 807, sliding the key card and pushing the door open.
The room is gorgeous. More than gorgeous, actually—it's objectively luxurious. There's a king bed in the center and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city lights, all of San Francisco spread out below us.
I drop my overnight bag on the luggage rack and head straight for the bathroom, needing a minute to myself, needing to splash cold water on my face and have a stern conversation with myself in the mirror.
The bathroom has marble everywhere and those little luxury toiletries that you want to steal even though you know you shouldn't. I turn on the cold water and splash my face, careful not to completely destroy what's left of my makeup, then look at myself in the mirror.
My lipstick is long gone. My cheeks are flushed from dancing and drinking and being near him for the last six hours.
"Get it together," I whisper to my reflection. "You can share a room with him for one night. You have self-control. You are a professional. You are not going to do anything stupid."
My reflection looks deeply unconvinced.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and walk back out into the room.
Alex has laid out the extra pillows and the throw blanket from the armchair on the floor beside the bed, making himself a little nest that actually looks reasonably comfortable. He's sitting there checking his phone, and he glances up when I emerge.
The tension in the room shifts immediately.
I know he wants to sleep with me again. I can see it in the way he looks at me, in the way his eyes track my movement across the room. I knowIwant to sleep with him again. In fact I want it so badly I can barely think about anything else.
"Well," I say, trying to sound like my heart isn't pounding. "Goodnight."
He blinks. "Goodnight?"
"Goodnight," I confirm, and walk over to the bed, pulling back the covers on the far side—the side closest to the window and farthest from where he's set up camp on the floor.
Responsible Isabelle wins this round. Maybe there's hope for my self-control after all.
I climb into bed and reach over to click off the bedside lamp. The room plunges into semi-darkness, the glow from the city lights outside providing the only illumination.
There's a rustling sound as he settles into his makeshift bed on the floor, and then silence. The kind of silence that gets louder the longer it goes on. The kind that makes you hyperaware of every breath, every movement, every sound.
I can hear him breathing. I can hear the faint sounds of traffic from the street below. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
This is going to be a very long night.
"Isabelle?" Alex's voice cuts through the darkness after what feels like an hour but is probably only five minutes.