It doesn’t matter what happened before. What matters is surviving the next six days without doing something stupid.
The truth is, I’m finally diagnosing this sickness: I’ve got Scarlett fever in the worst way. As cheesy as that sounds, distance from her now is the only way to get through the week.
When I finally head upstairs to my suite, I drop into the nearest chair, loosening the buttons on my dress shirt before tossing it aside.
And that’s when I hear it. The sound of a faucet turning on.
At first, I think it’s coming from the suite next door, but the echo of water is unmistakable. It sounds like it’s coming from inside my bathroom.
That can’t be right.
I stride toward the bathroom as the door flies open, startling me. Scarlett steps out wearing a short, gray-purple robe, her legs very much on display. Her eyes widen before she lets out an ear-splitting shriek.
I jerk backward, nearly tripping over an ottoman before catching myself.
“What are you doing inmyroom?” she demands, clutching the collar of her robe like I’m some kind of intruder.
“Yourroom?” I stare at her, completely bewildered. “This ismyroom. And you’re taking a bath inmytub.”
She shakes her head. “No. Your mother and aunt gave me this room because it’s their favorite. They gave me the key personally.”
“How is that possible,” I grab the key off the side table, “when my grandmother gavemethe key?”
We just stare at each other as the realization settles in.
Either there was a major communication error or…
I drop my voice. “Do you think they planned?—”
“No!” she gasps. “They wouldn’t set us up like that…would they?” Doubt clouds her expression.
“This is my family we’re talking about,” I clap back. “Of course they would.”
Scarlett looks appalled. “Why would they think we need—” She stops, horror dawning on her face. “Oh my gosh. Do they think they’rehelpingus?”
“Most likely, yes.” I pace the room, making a point not to look at her in that robe. “My mother probably thinks she’s speeding up the romance. Remember that conversation about couples waiting too long to get married?”
Her eyes widen. “What do we do now?”
I drag a hand down my face. “I can’t go downstairs and say there’s been a mistake.”
“Why not?”
“Because thereisn’ta mistake.” I gesture between us. “They think we’re dating. If I complain, they’re going to ask why I don’t want to share a room with my own girlfriend.”
Scarlett goes still.
“And once my mother starts asking questions, she won’t stop,” I conclude.
Scarlett groans softly. “So either we share the room…or we tell them the truth.”
“Exactly.” I pace to the window, trying to think of another option and come up empty. “Every guest room is full—half the family flew in. Carmen double-checked.”
“What about the couches downstairs?”
“In the main living areas, where the staff start working at five a.m.?” I shake my head, knowing that would be equally disastrous. “My family will demand to know why I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“So what you’re saying is…there is no plan B?” She looks cornered. And the worst part is, she has every right to be. Because nowhere in our carefully negotiated agreement did I mention we might be sleeping in the same room.