Page 13 of The Snuggle Is Real

"Exactly."

She smiles. It's not her teasing smile. Then she leans in very, very close to me. “I wasn’t flirting,” she whispers. “Don’t be insane.”

“I’m not being insane.” Except I kind of am. I shove the s’more into my mouth so I don’t say anything else.

Then she pops the rest of her s'more in her mouth and says around it, "Okay, I'm exhausted. Take me to our incredibly romantic hotel room, fake boyfriend."

Right.

The room.

"About the room," I say.

She stops chewing. "What about the room?"

I clear my throat. Somewhere across the yard, George Strait is singing. The fire pops.

"It only has one bed."

Emily doesn’t seem shocked. She doesn’t even seem annoyed.

“Of course it does. Whoever booked it thinks we’re together.”

I’m relieved she’s not mad at me.

But now I don’t know how I’m supposed to share a bed with her all night and not want to spoon the hell out of her.

Among other things.

The Inn at Wanted has named our room the Harvest Suite.

That should have been my first warning.

The second warning is the quilt, which is covered from corner to corner in pumpkins with trailing vines and random leaves.

"Oh, look at it," Emily breathes from the doorway, like she's stumbled into a cathedral. "Malcolm. It's a sign."

"It's a bedspread. And an ugly one at that. You know I’m not big on themes.” I dump my bag that was being held in the lobby on the floor unceremoniously.

"It's a sign that pumpkin is the superior fall flavor and the universe is on my side." She drops her weekender bag and runs her hand over the quilt. "Even the Inn knows."

I'm not looking at the quilt. I'm looking at the bed.

The lone bed.

Like in every rom com movie I’ve ever been forced to watch.

It's a four-poster, antique, carved walnut, very grand. It is also not a king. It isn't even a queen.

"That's a full size bed," I say.

"Is it?"

"Fifty-four inches wide. Seventy-five long." I know this because I looked it up on my phone in the parking lot while Emily was grabbing her garment bag, and then I did the math. Twenty-seven inches per person. That's less space than a coach airline seat once you account for shoulders.

Emily turns and gives me a long look. "You measured the bed."

"I estimated the bed."