All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(76)

He snorted and followed her out.

As the door began to shut behind them, though, he held up a hand. “Let me take one last look before we go. I might see something you didn’t.”

That was … surprisingly cautious from a man like him, but it couldn’t hurt to check a final time. So she used her body to prop open the door and appreciatively watched the play of muscles along his shoulders and down his back as he glanced inside the bathroom, ran a hand over the sheets, and fiddled with the dresser and nightstand.

“Nothing,” he finally said, rejoining her. “The Abominable Snowman’s coastal hideaway is pristine once more.” When the door clicked shut, he slung his free arm around her shoulders, and they headed for reception. “You know, I’ll bet there are absolutely filthy fics about the Abominable Snowman somewhere on AO3.”

She raised her brows. “Do you plan to write one?”

“After all the subarctic inspiration I got last night?” His grin positively seethed with wicked intent, and he tugged her closer. “I think we both know the answer to that question.”

Even though she shook her head at him, she had to laugh. Because yes, of course Alex was going to write Abominable Snowman smut. And if her suspicions proved correct—

“Do you think the Abominable Snowman has ever been pegged?” he asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

Yup. There it was.

She only hoped the fandom was ready, because if not: Goodness help them.

SINCE THEY’D GOTTEN a late start and stopped earlier than anticipated yesterday, they had a long haul ahead of them for their second day of travel. Five hours of driving in total, interrupted by various stops for tourism and food.

By the time they reached their hotel in Olema that evening—Lauren had made reservations from the road, unable to resist lodgings built directly atop the San Andreas Fault—she and Alex were both tired and ready to get out of the car. Still cheerful, though, and still chatting easily.

“I take back everything I said about Hearst Castle.” After removing both their bags from his trunk, Alex locked the car and followed her to the hotel’s entrance. “Due to its critical lack of turrets, I’m afraid it’s a zero out of ten. Would not recommend.”

“This morning, you told me the grounds and castle were amazing.” She raised her brows. “Was that a lie?”

“Why do you listen so closely to everything I say, and then remember it?” He frowned down at her, reaching over to rumple her hair with his free hand. “It’s all very unfair.”

She batted his hand away. “You’re just mad because I said Hearst Castle was more impressive than your castle.”

“Turrets, Wren,” he emphasized. “They had towers, not turrets, which means I win our castle-off. Clearly.”

“If that’s the only criterion, I too would win a castle-off.”

“Not against me,” he said smugly as they entered the lovely reception area.

The lighting was pleasantly dim, the scattered couches and chairs overstuffed and upholstered in jewel tones, and the check-in desk marble. The night’s stay would be pricey, but he’d insisted they go somewhere as classy as he was.

When she’d suggested a bed of hay in a stable, then, he’d laughed delightedly and kissed her at a stoplight until she’d collapsed against the passenger door, dizzy and tingling.

She wanted more kisses. More everything. As soon as possible.

That morning, on the tram going up to the castle, he’d looped his arm around her shoulders and bent low to rest his cheek on her hair. Over lunch at a café in Carmel, he’d scooted his chair so close, his thigh had pressed against hers the entire meal. When they’d stopped at Big Sur, even Alex had been stunned into silence by the sight of a roiling ocean pummeling the rugged shore, and he’d held her hand tightly as they watched in awe. At Half Moon Bay, he’d dramatically pouted at the attention she paid to the surfers and vowed to parade around in a wetsuit whenever possible, if that was what it took to gain her undivided focus. Then he’d yanked her close on a bench by the shore and claimed her mouth with ferocious intent.

By the time they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, she was the one resting her hand on his knee and sliding it up his thigh. Not too far, but far enough to tell him what he needed to know.

She was all in. And when they finally reached their hotel room, she’d gladly show him.

The young woman behind the reception desk was friendly, although she didn’t seem to recognize Alex. Not even when he braced his hands on the countertop and leaned forward with that famously charming grin, his voice conspiratorially low. So low Lauren’s belly dropped, and she had to rub her thighs together just a bit.

“I know we made reservations for a standard king room, but do you have anything with a big, jetted bathtub? Doesn’t matter what it costs.” He winked at the woman, who appeared slightly dazed. “We’re celebrating.”

“There’s, uh—” The poor clerk swallowed hard. “There’s the honeymoon suite. The private balcony has a large whirlpool tub and a dining nook.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Sold.”

Oh, goodness, she’d seen that suite on the hotel’s website, and the expense.

“Alex—” she began.

He skated his knuckles over her cheek. “Trust me, Wren.”