The hotel bar has the kind of aggressive mood lighting that suggests someone's about to make regrettable decisions. Probably me. Almost certainly me. Definitely me.
Gemma materializes at my door around seven, having apparently extended her stay specifically to witness my psychological unraveling firsthand. True friendship involves front-row seats to disasters.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she announces. "Or had sex with one. Or desperately wanted to have sex with one. Which is it?"
"Corner booth," I say. "Wine. Large quantities. No further questions until alcohol arrives."
We claim a shadowy corner of the bar where the lighting flatters desperation and the acoustics swallow secrets. The server delivers two generous pours of something red and expensive.
Gemma waits approximately four seconds before abandoning her promise of silence.
"Spill. Everything. Now. I've been dying of curiosity since the reception, and you've been avoiding my texts like they contain actual computer viruses."
I stare into my wine like it contains answers. It doesn't. It contains grapes and poor judgment fuel.
"Where do I even start?"
"The beginning. The wine bar. Before I accidentally set you up with your future stepbrother and earned myself a special place in hell reserved for well-meaning matchmakers."
The confession spills out in fragments. The wine bar encounter—his fingers on my thigh, his mouth on my neck, the devastating moment he stopped and left me wanting. Discovering he was Richard's son at dinner.
Gemma's expression cycles through horror, fascination, and something approaching impressed. Her wine goes untouched.
"The entire week of tension," I continue. "The constant teasing. The kitchen conversation where I told him the deal was off and he just smiled like he knew I'd eventually change my mind."
"Because you did change your mind."
"At the reception. When he danced with you and I practically dragged him into the hallway and demanded he honor our original arrangement." My voice drops to barely audible. "He refused."
Gemma nearly drops her wine glass. "He refused? Oliver Crawford, legendary pleasure-giver, turned down the opportunity to demonstrate his legendary skills? That man? Seriously?"
"Said it was his decision now. Said I'd been flip-flopping based on jealousy. Said I could come find him when I stopped lying to myself about what I actually want."
"The audacity." But her tone carries grudging respect rather than outrage. "And today? What fresh hell happened today?"
The pool incident requires more wine. I drink deeply before describing it. His body cutting through water like some kind of chlorinated fever dream. Twenty minutes of pretending to read chapter eight. Him pulling me in without warning.
"He backed me against the wall," I admit. "Pressed his thigh between mine underwater. Asked if I was still pretending I didn't want this."
"And?"
"And my entire body betrayed me instantly. I moved against him before I could stop myself. He noticed. Obviously he noticed—he notices everything about me."
Gemma is staring at me with growing fascination. The guilt from her accidental matchmaking seems to have transformed into something more complicated.
"Lottie, when Oliver and I slept together, he was technically skilled. Impressively so. But it felt like a performance. Like he was going through expertly choreographed motions without actually being present in the moment."
She swirls her wine thoughtfully.
"What you're describing sounds completely different. More personal. Like he's actually engaged rather than just executing a flawless routine he's perfected over time."
I don't know what to do with that information. It settles into my chest alongside everything else, crowding already limited space.
"So what am I supposed to do?" The question comes out raw. Vulnerable. "He makes me feel everything I thought I was incapable of feeling. My body responds to him in ways it's never responded to anyone. I spent twenty-four years believing I was fundamentally broken."
Gemma reaches across the table and squeezes my hand firmly.
"And now there's evidence suggesting otherwise. But the evidence happens to be my new stepbrother. My mother just married his father. We're legally family now."
"The stepbrother thing is a legal technicality," Gemma says with characteristic bluntness. "You share zero DNA. Your parents met as adults with fully formed children. It's not like you grew up together in the same household."
"We did, actually. Briefly. When we were children. He used to torment me during visits. Locked me in cupboards. Made me cry regularly for his own amusement."
"Okay, that's weird and borderline traumatic. But also, you were children. People change dramatically. Especially people who apparently change careers from gigolo to whatever mysterious consulting he claims to do now."
She tops off my wine without asking permission.
"Here's the thing. You've spent your entire adult life believing you were broken. Three relationships ended with men calling you cold, frigid, unresponsive. You'd convinced yourself you were possibly asexual."
I nod miserably into my glass.
"If Oliver proves that's not true—that you just needed someone patient enough to actually work for it—doesn't that matter more than awkward family dinners at Christmas?"
"It's not that simple, Gemma."
"No," she agrees. "It's really not. Oliver isn't simple. His past, his profession, the walls he keeps around himself—I've seen them firsthand. He's charming on the surface but there's something guarded underneath all that practiced smoothness."
She leans forward, expression serious for once.
"You'd be walking into something complicated with no guarantee of a happy ending. He might give you the best orgasm of your life and then retreat behind his perfect smile. He might prove you're not broken and still break your heart completely."
The warning should terrify me. It probably should send me running in the opposite direction, toward safe choices and uncomplicated men who don't make my nervous system malfunction entirely.
Instead, I stare into my wine and feel something shift inside me.
"I'm not sure I care about happy endings anymore."
The words surprise me as much as they surprise Gemma. But they're true. Painfully, devastatingly true.
"I've spent years protecting myself from disappointment. Dating men who didn't threaten my equilibrium. Accepting mediocre relationships because at least mediocre felt safe and manageable."
My voice drops to barely a whisper.
"I just want to feel something real. Even if it's complicated. Even if it destroys me completely. At least I'll know I'm actually capable of being destroyed."
Gemma studies me for a long moment. Something like understanding passes between us.
"Then stop running," she says simply. "Stop hiding in your room pretending you're reading chapter eight. Stop telling yourself all the reasons it can't work."
She raises her glass in a toast.
"Go find out what happens when you stop protecting yourself from the possibility of actually feeling alive."
I think about green eyes and silver medallions. About hands that knew exactly where to touch and a man patient enough to work for what others abandoned. About the question I've been asking since the wine bar.
Am I broken? Or have I just been waiting for someone willing to prove otherwise?
The wine tastes like courage and terrible decisions. The kind that ruin lives and reveal truths simultaneously.
Forty-four more hours in this hotel.
Maybe that's enough time to find out who I actually am beneath all the armor I've built.
Maybe destruction isn't the worst outcome after all.