Brandon had been drinking champagne all evening.
He was cheerful.
Relaxed.
Completely, visibly happy.
At least, that was what I believed.
The suite was beautiful. Cream walls. A king-size bed with an upholstered headboard and a carved wooden frame. Rose petals someone had scattered across the duvet in the shape of a heart. A bottle of champagne sweating in a silver bucket by the window, the city lights glittering beyond the glass.
I stood in the middle of all that loveliness and felt almost giddy.
And then I had an absurd idea.
My grandmother, Evelyn, used to tell a story about how she hid in the coat closet on her wedding night in 1962 and jumped out at my grandfather when he walked in. He screamed so loud the hotel manager came up to check on them. They laughed about it for fifty-one years.
I decided I would do the same.
