The suite was way too nice for this kind of mistake.
One king-size bed. Three colleagues. One room. The front desk had been apologetic, the hotel manager had offered a comped minibar and a bottle of Veuve, but the bottom line remained: no spare rooms, no rollaway beds, no solution until morning.
Naomi stood at the center of the suite, suitcase by her side, heels still on, skirt still hugging her thighs. She was already sweating—not from heat, but from tension.
Two men.
One on either side of the bed.
One, Mark—her ex, recently re-muscled, looking infuriating in that fitted black T-shirt.
The other, Adrian—the quiet one. Sharp, tall, too handsome for HR, and always watching her like she was the dessert tray at a private dinner.
“We can be adults about this,” Adrian had said earlier, s
