“The drive was great. Quick. No traffic,” Henry says as he walks into the foyer and I follow behind. “This one slept the whole time. Worst copilot ever!”

“Hey! It’s not my fault you didn’t offer any of the snacks you brought to keep me awake!” I throw back, elbowing his ribs. “You promised Zebra Cakes, and here I am, famished.”

“I’ll spend the rest of the weekend feeding you whatever your heart desires to compensate for my sins.”

“Aren’t you two cute,” Anne swoons. “I figured you’d want to relax this afternoon before the chaos ensues. I should have said screw the party and taken your father on a trip. Event planning is not for the faint of heart. How about Mexican food for dinner? We figured we could go out tonight, since we’ll have most of the meals catered the rest of the weekend.”

“Sounds delicious,” I say.

“Wonderful. Hen, your room is ready for you. Towels are in the bathroom and fresh sheets are on the bed. If you need any more, let me know, and I’ll dig some out.”

“Perfect. Where are we putting Emma?”

Anne frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Where is she going to sleep?” he clarifies.

“With you in your room, of course. Where else would she go?” She sounds confused as she looks between us like we each have two heads.

My stomach drops straight to my feet so fast, I swear I’m free-falling from a plane without a parachute. Henry’s grip tenses around me. It’s a small flex of his muscles, but I notice it immediately. The tips of his fingers tap on my shirt repeatedly. It’s his nervous habit, I’ve noticed, one he subconsciously does when he’s anxious or on edge. He’s clutching me tighter, almost using me for protection.

If I had to wager a guess, I’d bet this is the first time he’s hearing about this, too.

It turns out sleeping arrangements are the only thing we haven’t discussed in our weeks of communication. I know Henry is allergic to kiwi and adamantly declares black ink as the superior color when signing legally binding documents, but where we’ll be resting our heads never got brought up.

Maybe that’s my fault for assuming we’d spend time in separate hotel rooms, not shacked up together under the same roof as his parents.

The temperature in the foyer is steadily rising, becoming much hotter at the thought of spending four nights curled up beside him, bodies less than a foot apart as we slumber peacefully.

Henry speaks first, breaking the icy silence. “I’ll take the guest room,” he offers.

“It’s your home,” I interject. “I can take the guest room.”

“No, really, please, my room is much bigger and I want you to be comf—”