There's a lot of family to get through before dinner, and walked him toward the entrance like they'd known each other for years." Vanessa followed two steps behind and Malcolm, walking beside a woman he'd known for 45 seconds who was guiding him into a world he'd known for 0 seconds caught Vanessa's eye over her mother's head. She gave him the smallest possible look. Something between an apology and a warning. He gave her the smallest possible nod.
Something between I've got this and we'll talk later. The doors to Hartwell Resort opened in front of them. The lobby was all light and dark wood and the distant sound of the ocean. And somewhere ahead of them, deeper in the resort, already present, already watching, was Trent Whitmore. Malcolm squared his shoulders.
He was ready, he thought. The front desk attendant was efficient, pleasant, and entirely unaware that she was about to dismantle the one structural safety guarantee of the entire arrangement. Caldwell Brooks reservation," Vanessa said, stepping up while Diane had been briefly pulled away by a cousin. "Of course." The attendant typed, smiled, looked up.
"The Ocean View King suite we upgraded. You congratulations on the engagement." She held out a single key envelope. "Your room is ready." Vanessa's hand reaching for the key stopped.
"There should be two rooms," she said, controlled. Certain or a suite with we specifically requested. I'm so sorry there was an update to the reservation last week. More typing. It looks like the suite was confirmed as one room, one king bed.
We've been fully booked since Wednesday. The Hartwell wedding party took the last of the doubles. She looked genuinely regretful. Is there anything I can? No, Vanessa said quickly.
No, it's She took the key envelope. It's fine. She turned. Malcolm was standing two feet behind her. He had heard all of it.
He looked at her. She looked at him. Neither of them spoke. And somewhere behind them coming back across the lobby with champagne and a smile was Diane Caldwell. "Ready to go up?" she called.
"Yes," Vanessa said. Her voice was perfectly steady. Her hand, when it found Malcolm's arm again, just barely, just for a second, was not one bed. 48 hours. Trent Whitmore at dinner.
Malcolm looked down at the key envelope in Vanessa's hand. Then he looked up at her face, composed, armored, professional, and beneath all of it just barely like something surfacing. I'm sorry. I didn't plan this. Hey, he said quietly.