Morning light floods the hotel dining room with aggressive cheerfulness. The kind of sunshine that feels personally offensive after a night spent hate-fantasizing about your stepbrother.
I slept terribly. Dreams filled with green eyes and silver medallions and hands that knew exactly where to touch. Woke up tangled in sheets, frustrated in every possible definition of the word.
I pause in the doorway, scanning for threats. Specifically, one tall, dark-haired threat with green eyes and an ego the size of continental Europe.
The remaining wedding guests cluster around tables laden with pastries and fruit. Steam rises from silver chafing dishes. Everything smells like bacon and impending disaster.
And there he is.
Oliver sits at a corner table with Aunt Margaret and two cousins whose names I've already forgotten. He's mid-story, gesturing with easy confidence while they laugh at whatever charming anecdote he's spinning.
Probably something about his supposed consulting work. The consulting work that definitely wasn't being a professional pleasure-giver.
The only empty chair is beside him. Because of course it is.
Margaret spots me and waves with the enthusiasm of someone who's had three mimosas before nine a.m. "Lottie! Come sit with us! Oliver was just telling us about his work in international markets!"
International markets. Sure. Very creative euphemism.
I briefly consider feigning sudden illness. Food poisoning. Appendicitis. Spontaneous combustion.
But Margaret is already pulling out the chair, and declining would require explanations I'm not prepared to give. So I approach the table of my own personal doom.
Oliver glances up as I arrive. His smile is perfectly calibrated—warm enough for family, knowing enough to make my blood pressure spike.
"Morning, Lottie. Sleep well?"
"Like the dead."
"You do look a bit corpse-like. In a charming way."
I sit down with minimal grace. The chair puts approximately eight inches between us. Eight inches that feel simultaneously like miles and millimeters.
Margaret pours me coffee without asking. "Oliver was explaining currency hedging strategies! Absolutely fascinating!"
"Thrilling," I manage.
The buffet calls to me. I escape briefly to fill a plate with scrambled eggs I have zero appetite for. When I return, Oliver has shifted position. His knee is now dangerously close to mine.
I focus on my eggs with the intensity of someone defusing explosives. Scrambled. Slightly overcooked. Completely irrelevant to anything except providing cover for not meeting his gaze.
"Salt?" Oliver offers, holding out the shaker before I've even reached for it.
I freeze. He remembers how I take my eggs. From one meal. One awkward family dinner where I was too distracted by his existence to actually taste anything.
"Thanks," I mutter, taking it without making eye contact.
The intimacy feels enormous. Ridiculous. It's just salt. People pass salt constantly without it meaning anything profound about their awareness of each other's dietary preferences.
My skin tingles anyway.
Margaret beams between us. "You two seem so natural together! Like you've known each other for years rather than days!"
I nearly choke on my breakfast.
"Some connections are simply instant," Oliver replies smoothly. "Chemistry that transcends time."
His foot brushes mine beneath the table.
My entire leg tingles from that single point of contact. Electricity racing upward through my nervous system like I'm a particularly responsive science experiment.
I can't tell if it's accidental or deliberate. With Oliver, intention and coincidence blur into maddening uncertainty. He sips his coffee with the composure of a man who absolutely did not just play footsie with his stepsister.
"Isn't that romantic?" Margaret sighs. "Instant connection. Like your parents!"
"Exactly like our parents," I agree through gritted teeth.
The cousins launch into discussion about their journey home. Train schedules and traffic predictions. Oliver contributes appropriate comments while his leg remains precisely positioned against mine.
Not pressing. Not retreating. Just there. A constant reminder of proximity I cannot escape.
I force down eggs that taste like cardboard and regret. Every swallow feels performative. Every breath brings his cologne into my awareness.
"More coffee?" Oliver offers.
"I'm fine."
"You seem tense."
"I'm always tense. It's a personality feature."
His lips twitch. "I've noticed."
The breakfast stretches into eternity. Margaret recounts wedding highlights. The cousins debate whether the salmon or beef was superior. Oliver charms everyone effortlessly while I sit rigid as a corpse.
Finally, blessedly, people begin making departure noises. I seize my opportunity.
"Excuse me," I say, standing abruptly. "I need to check something at the front desk."
Oliver's gaze follows me as I flee. I feel it burning between my shoulder blades all the way across the dining room.
The front desk attendant is young and professionally helpful. Her name tag reads "Emily" and her smile suggests she's never experienced anything as complicated as accidentally letting her future stepbrother finger her in public.
"Good morning! How can I help you?"
"I'd like to check out early. Today, if possible."
Emily types something into her computer. Her brow furrows slightly.
"I'm sorry, but there's a note here from Mrs. Crawford—Helen Crawford, the bride? She's left explicit instructions that your room is paid through Sunday."
My stomach sinks. "Sunday?"
"Yes. She was quite insistent that you enjoy the spa and other amenities. Something about you deserving relaxation after all your help with the wedding?"
I want to laugh hysterically. Relaxation. In the same building as Oliver. For two more days.
"Can I override that? Pay for my own early checkout?"
Emily looks genuinely apologetic. "The reservation is in her name. I'd need her authorization to make changes. Would you like me to call her?"
My mother is currently honeymoon-drunk somewhere in the Cotswolds. Calling to explain that I need to flee the hotel because her new stepson makes me feel things I cannot process would not enhance her marital bliss.
"No. That's fine. Thank you."
I walk away from the desk feeling like a prisoner who just learned her sentence extended.
Trapped. Two more days. Same building. Same corridors. Same breakfast table where he'll remember how I take my salt.
I lean against a marble pillar and contemplate my options. Hiding in my room seems cowardly. Facing Oliver repeatedly seems torturous.
The universe has constructed the perfect cage. Gilded and elegant and absolutely inescapable.
His decision now.
The words echo from last night. He holds all the power now. He decided that when he walked away and left me burning in the hallway.
Two more days of proximity. Two more days of accidental touches and knowing glances and that infuriating smile.
Two more days of wanting someone I'm supposed to hate.
I push off the pillar and head toward my room. If I'm trapped here, I might as well be trapped somewhere with a minibar.
The elevator doors open. Oliver stands inside.
Of course he does.
"Going up?" he asks mildly.
I step in because the alternative is waiting awkwardly in the lobby. The doors slide shut. We're alone in a small metal box rising slowly through the hotel.
He doesn't speak. Neither do I.
The silence screams louder than any conversation.
Third floor. Fourth. The elevator stops.
"See you around, sis," he says, stepping out.
The doors close on his retreating back. I sag against the wall and wonder how exactly I'm supposed to survive forty-eight more hours of this.
The answer, unfortunately, remains unclear.