“Wrong f*****g room. Can you believe that? For all the f*****g money we paid, the least they could do is get it right.” I can’t see the woman’s face, but she gasps when he gives her shoulder a little shove. “I can’t believe you chose such a bullshit venue that it can’t tell a honeymoon suite from a presidential suite.”
Wrong room. Wrong guy. What the f**k? I absolutely do not want to be stuck in this closet until morning when they finally leave. But it doesn’t look like I have much say in it. How the hell am I going to explain what I’m doing in a closet without raising an alarm and all the attendant unnecessary attention?
“It’s a better room.” And I know her voice. The soft lilt, the enunciation of each syllable, the soft melody of the sound.
Fuck. It can’t be. But it is. I know it is.
