Public Relations

"There has to be a mistake."

August and I stand in the middle of a single-room hotel suite, both of us staring at the king-sized bed. Yes, singular—not plural. Just the one bed.

I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping this is all some weird hallucination. That maybe I'm just overtired and delirious— maybe the suite actually has two rooms so far apart we'd have to shout to hear each other. But when I open my eyes again, it's still the same single bed. "There's been a mistake."

"It's fine, we can—"

"This has to be Andrea's room, or Rachel's, or, or, or... Ryan's room," I blurt out, cutting off whatever August was about to say. I frantically pull my phone from my bag and scroll to find Andrea's contact. "Rachel always books me a suite, and then Andrea approves it. Always with extra rooms, enough to sleep multiple people. I keep telling her I don't need something that big, but she does it every time— I'm calling her."

"Maybe she's just doing what you asked."

"I didn't mean for this time," I grind out through clenched teeth, pressing the phone to my ear as I pace around the cramped hotel room. I glance around, taking in the two little purple velvet armchairs and a loveseat that's barely big enough for two people to sit on, let alone for someone to sleep on. I know New York is famous for its small hotel rooms but this room feels like a joke.

My phone rings twice before going to voicemail, and two text messages vibrate in my hand almost instantly. The first is the paparazzi picture of August and me making out at Hansen Coffee earlier and the other is a text from Andrea that reads, "We'll discuss the matter at hand in the morning."

My jaw drops, eyes widening as I bring the phone closer, staring at the photo in disbelief. My hands tangled in his hair, his thumb on my chin, parting my lips, his other hand disappearing somewhere beneath my cardigan. It looks scandalous.

Another text pops up from Andrea: "Enjoy yourself, you seemed to be earlier."

I scoff, feeling the blush creep up my neck and into my cheeks all over again. Without a second thought, I switch off my phone, twirl around, and storm past August toward the door. "I'm going to talk to Andrea. I'm sure the front desk will give me her room number."

"Mace," he says, quickly grabbing my shoulders to stop me in my tracks before I can charge out of the room. He pulls me back, turning me to face the bed. "It's late. I'm tired. I know you're tired. You've had a long day. Do you really want to spend the next hour playing musical rooms? I really don't mind sharing."

Sharing a room is one thing. August and I have slept in the same room before, sure, fallen asleep binge-watching The Twilight Zone every night for almost three weeks straight—him on one end of the couch, me on the other, with two arm lengths, a pizza box, or a Lucy between us. But he's right; it's late, and I'm exhausted.