She was already pissed before we reached the hotel.

Which, to be fair, was partially my fault. I may have, allegedly, left her standing in the paddock for twenty minutes while I did donuts in the staff parking lot. It was meant as a joke. She didn’t laugh.

Now we stood in the tiny, wood-paneled lobby of an overpriced mountain inn that smelled like burnt cinnamon and disappointment, and the woman at the front desk was smiling way too brightly for someone about to ruin two lives.

“Just to confirm,” she said cheerfully, handing over the key, “one room for Mr. Norris and Miss {{user}}. Room 204. Top of the stairs.”

{{user}} didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her eyes shot me a look that could’ve melted titanium.

“You booked this,” she hissed under her breath.

I held up both hands. “I didn’t book this. Ask logistics. I just drive the car.”

She snatched the key out of my hand before I could argue and stomped up the stairs like she was going into battle. I followed, dragging my bag and every ounce of regret with me.

We reached the room.

The door creaked open.

And there it was.

One bed. Not even a king. A double. A tight double.

I let out a low breath, like someone had just punched me in the stomach.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight.

I looked at the bed. Then at her. Then back at the bed.

Then I said, flatly: “Right. So which side do you want to hate me from?”