Page 96 of The Bodyguard's Fall

We chatted easily as Rosie led us up a beautiful dark-wood staircase to our room.

Which was indeed Sleeping Beauty themed.

If given the choice, I would have undergone everything with Leroy, the Walkers, and the wedding all over again if only to see the look on Tate’s face when he entered the room.

The four-poster queen-sized bed decked out in plush pinks captured our gaze first. Epic and stately, it was extremely feminine with lavish rose curtains draped all around the bed and touching the floor. Its own private getaway. The entire room was dripping with pinks and purples and even boasted a stately white dresser. For the next two minutes, Rosie led us around the room, pointing out new features. In the bathroom, she moved a set of plush purple towels out of the cupboard and placed them on the bathroom sink.

“When is breakfast?” I asked.

Rosie’s bright smile faltered a bit at the question. “I’m sorry, it’s not a B&B anymore. It’s just an inn.” She paused before adding, “Because I can’t cook. But I could grab you something from the bakery if you⁠—”

“We don’t need breakfast,” Tate insisted. “No worries. Thank you, though.”

Once she was satisfied we’d be comfortable in our room, she left us with a smile that was etched in exhaustion.

Plot Twist: Real-life people actually do renovate inns in small tourist towns.

The door clicked. And suddenly, we were alone, staring at an imposing four-poster bed that seemed to take up the entire room.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hug or kill the Walker brothers.

“What sort of fresh hell is this place?” Tate’s voice was a mix of awe and repulsion.

“It’s adorable,” I said. “Didn’t you ever watch Sleeping Beauty growing up?”

He shot me a look that only made me laugh.

“Well, if you had, then you’d appreciate the details of this room.”

He looked doubtful but finally set our bag on a bench and immediately began lifting the curtains around the bed and tucking them around the overhead posts.

“There goes my dream of being a princess,” I teased lightly, kicking my shoes off, not sure what to do next in this hotel room with my real-but-very-fake new husband.

“Sorry, but I need to be able to see the whole room.”

“Who said you get the bed?” I asked.

He stopped what he was doing and looked over his shoulder at me. I could only flash him a grin in response. There was an awkwardness between us, and I needed it gone. I didn’t know who I was at this moment in time. Perhaps I was just half-delirious after a crazy whirlwind—but surprisingly, not altogether unhappy—day? Maybe I was still feeling the effects of an impromptu honeymoon stroll down the cutest small-town village with Tate’s hand holding mine? Or maybe it was the confident way he drove us home, his strong hand at the wheel, quietly conversing with me about anything and everything?

“I’ll fight you for it,” he said.

“You want to start your marriage out with a broken rib?”

He turned around, leaning against a bedpost, and folded his arms, a gleam in his eye, all while looking incredibly appealing. “I could teach you some jiu jitsu.”

My brow furrowed. “Isn’t that where they fight lying on the ground?”

“The fighting part could be optional.”

The rest of my words vanished as a heated flush covered my entire body.

He only smiled. “You’re too easy, Rawlins.” He turned back around and finished his task on the other side of the bed before I realized he’d used the wrong last name.

Unable to let him totally win this one, I lightly chucked a shoe at him before disappearing into the bathroom with the duffel bag and crimson cheeks, his deep chuckle the last thing I heard before the door closed.

My hands trembled as I opened the bag, thankful that it was Ann who had packed my clothes. As the mother of the son I’d just temporarily married, she would have definitely packed my baggiest pair of sweats and a sweatshirt. The woman would get it. But Ann was definitely more like her rascally sons than she got credit for, because instead of layers and comfort and fabric, she packed my skimpiest tank top and light-blue, pinstriped shorts that resembled male boxers and hit me mid-thigh. Could it have been worse? Yes. Could more parts of my body have been covered? Also, yes.

I didn’t allow myself to dwell on the vision of my clothes married with Tate’s in our bag and instead yanked open the door and stepped out.