Chapter 7: The Suite Situation
The desert cold was a physical shock, a dry, biting thing that stole the breath the moment they stepped from the plane. The tarmac was a black mirror under the stars. Dasha, wrapped in a practical, elegant wool coat, gave him a single, silent glance as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his useless jacket.
“Told you,” she said, her words forming a small cloud in the air.
“You’re insufferable when you’re right.”
“Then I must be insufferable constantly.” She fell into step beside him, their luggage whisked away by a discreet handler. The night was profoundly still, the sky a dizzying spill of stars you never saw in LA.
The hotel lobby was all warm light and minimalist sandstone, but it did nothing to cut the chill he’d brought in with him. A cheerful fire crackled in a vast hearth, a cruel tease. The concierge, a man with a smile as polished as the marble floors, greeted them by name.
“Mr. Bomer, Ms. Waldorf. Welcome. Your suite is ready.” He tapped at his keyboard, then his smile faltered, just a fraction. “Ah. I see there was a note from your assistant’s office requesting a two-bedroom suite.”
Dasha’s posture, already straight, went rigid. “Yes.”
“My deepest apologies. We have you in our premier suite, of course, but due to the geology symposium, we are at absolute capacity. The suite has one bedroom.” He paused, looking between them with a careful neutrality. “It is, however, quite spacious. There is an exceptionally large sofa in the living area.”
The silence stretched. Matt could feel the heat of Dasha beside him, could sense the rapid calculations behind her calm eyes. The memory of his hand on her cheek, her skin under his palm, flashed between them in the quiet lobby.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Matt said, the words coming out low and rough.
“Don’t be absurd. I’ll take the couch,” Dasha said simultaneously, her voice all business.
The concierge, misreading the tension entirely, beamed. “Excellent! A compromise. It really is a very comfortable couch.” He slid two keycards across the desk. “Enjoy your romantic getaway! The desert at night is quite magical.”
They took the keys without another word.
The ride in the silent elevator was agony. Matt watched their reflection in the brass doors—a handsome, famous man and his beautiful, impenetrable assistant, standing a careful two feet apart. The universe had a terrible sense of humor.
The suite was, as promised, stunning. It was all clean lines, bleached wood, and vast panels of glass. The desert lay beyond, a moonlit sea of silent, wind-sculpted rock. The air smelled of citrus and clean linen. And there, dominating the living area, was the couch. It was a modern behemoth, sleek and low. It was also, unmistakably, a two-seater.
Dasha stopped just inside the doorway, her eyes on the couch. A faint, incredulous laugh escaped her. “That’s not a sofa. That’s a statement piece with identity issues.”
“It’s a loveseat,” Matt said, dropping his bag. “The concierge’s definition of ‘exceptionally large’ is clearly subjective.”
She walked over to it, pressed a hand into the cushion, and sighed. “I’ve slept on worse. It’s fine.”
“You are not sleeping on a two-foot-wide slab of modern art.” He walked into the bedroom. The king-sized bed was a plain of white linen, piled with pillows. It seemed to mock him. He grabbed two pillows and a heavy duvet from the foot of the bed. “We’ll flip for the bed. Or draw straws. Or have a decency-off, which you’d win hands down.”
When he returned to the living area, she was standing at the window, her coat still on, hugging herself. The vast, indifferent beauty of the desert had a way of shrinking human problems to a manageable scale. Or magnifying them. He wasn’t sure which yet.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, not turning around. “We’re two adults. We shared a hundred-square-foot jet cabin for six hours. This is a thousand-square-foot suite.”
“With one bed.”
“A detail.” She finally turned. The professional mask was back, but it was fragile, hairline cracks showing at the edges. “The sleeping arrangement is a logistical problem. We’ll solve it logically. You have a photoshoot at dawn. You need proper sleep. Therefore, you take the bed. I will take the… statement piece. It’s not a debate.”
He dropped the pillows on the absurdly small couch. “And what about what I need?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“You’re always figuring out what Matt Bomer needs. The brand. The schedule. The jacket he forgot.” He took a step closer. The citrus scent was on her, too. “What about what I need? Right now?”
Her breath caught. The logical argument died in her throat. She just looked at him, waiting.
“I need to not be the guy who makes his assistant sleep on a torture device while he hogs the California king. It offends my deeply buried sense of chivalry.” He offered a small, wry smile. “So here’s the logic. The bed is massive. It’s a geographical feature. We can share it without ever breaching the Continental Divide. We build a pillow wall. We enact a formal treaty regarding sheet real estate. It’s just… horizontal proximity. We’re professionals.”
The word hung in the air, meaningless now.
She stared at him, and he watched the war play out across her face—the sheer, practical sense of the offer versus the terrifying intimacy of it, the memory of the jet, the feel of his hand, the vast quiet of the rocks outside that seemed to demand honesty.
“A pillow wall,” she repeated, her voice flat.
“Impenetrable. Fort Knox of pillows.”
She was silent for a long moment, looking from him, to the bed visible through the doorway, to the cramped little couch. She unbuttoned her coat, slowly, a decision being made with each movement.
“Fine,” she said, the word a release of tension. “But if you snore, the treaty is null and void, and I’m relegating you to the floor.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Everyone snores, Matt. You probably just have a team of people who are paid too well to ever mention it.”
He laughed, a real, surprised sound that echoed in the spacious room. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone’s said about me all year.”
An hour later, the pact felt less logical. They had performed a careful, parallel ballet in the lavish bathroom, brushing teeth with studious focus on the basins at opposite ends. He’d changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt in the walk-in closet. She’d emerged from the bathroom in sleek, dark pajamas that covered her from neck to ankle, her face clean of makeup, her hair in a simple braid. She looked younger. She looked real.
The pillow wall was erected with solemn ceremony down the center of the bed. It was a ludicrous barrier, a puffy, white Alps between them.
They climbed in from opposite sides, each disturbing as little of the sheets as possible. The lights went out, plunging the room into a deep, blue-black darkness, punctuated only by the starlight bleeding in around the edges of the curtains. The silence was absolute, a dense, living thing. He could hear her breathing, slow and controlled. He could feel the heat of her body, a distant furnace across the no-man's-land of pillows.
“This is more awkward than the jet,” her voice came, quiet in the dark.
“Infinitely.”
“I feel like I’m in a sarcophagus.”
“My side’s quite comfortable, thank you.”
A beat of silence. Then, “You’re on my side.”
“What? No, I’m not.” He shifted, but in the total dark, direction was meaningless.
“You are. The treaty stipulates the nightstand on my left. My left nightstand is currently on my right. You’ve crossed the meridian.”
He burst out laughing, the tension shattering. “You’ve memorized the layout of a hotel room you’ve been in for ninety minutes. You’re incredible.”
“It’s my job to know where things are,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“Well, geography expert, which way do I go?”
“Roll to your starboard. Gently. You’re causing a continental drift.”
He obeyed, shuffling carefully. His shoulder brushed the pillow wall, sending a top pillow tumbling softly into the valley between them. They both froze.
“Casualty,” he whispered.
“Leave it,” she whispered back.
The new silence was different. Softer. The barrier was breached. The desert outside held its breath.
“Dasha?”
“Hmm?”
“What you said on the jet… about being the thing that breaks my world.” He stared at the dark ceiling. “You had it backwards. I think you might be the thing that finally makes it feel real.”
She didn’t answer for so long he thought she might be asleep, or pretending to be.