Chapter One – Wrong Stuarts, Wrong Stewarts
The flight had been bumpy, the landing worse, and the news at the airport downright terrifying: “tornado watch until further notice.”
Great. Just great.
Anna Cristina Stuart—half-Filipino, half-Pennsylvania-proud, marketing executive who had clawed her way into the big leagues—was supposed to be preparing for her talk at the Midwestern Marketing Summit, not worrying about wind tunnels that sucked cows and cars into the sky.
Still, she consoled herself as she wheeled her carry-on toward the hotel shuttle, at least her company loved her enough to put her up in a five-star hotel. Maybe she deserved a little pampering after the hell of quarterly reports and campaign pitches.
At check-in, the clerk smiled extra wide. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart-Stewart! We’ve been expecting you.”
Anna blinked. “Mrs… who now?”
“Your honeymoon suite is ready. Very romantic. Best view of the city.”
Anna’s brows shot up. My company really went all out, huh? Maybe she’d send HR a thank-you card.
Meanwhile, across the lobby, another weary traveler set his pen to the check-in clipboard. Jacob Stewart, architect, CEO of his own small but growing firm. He was here to inspect a project site before the tornado situation delayed everything.
“Suite’s ready, Mr. Stewart,” the clerk chirped.
Jacob frowned. He wasn’t used to luxury for himself. Sure, his firm did well, but he wasn’t the type to waste money on honeymoons he wasn’t having. Still, the key card was handed to him before he could argue.
Suite 1507.
The same suite Anna was already heading toward.
The Honeymoon Suite
The suite was ridiculous. Roses on the pillows, swan-shaped towels on the bed, a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.
Anna dropped her bags and flopped onto the bed. “Well,” she muttered, “this is either HR’s mistake or divine intervention.”
Her thighs itched. She knew what that meant. Hives. Stress always brought them out. She groaned, rummaged through her bag for the antihistamines she hated taking. Within minutes of swallowing one, her eyelids drooped.
“Perfect,” she slurred. “Summit speech tomorrow, and I’ll be unconscious until Christmas.”
She curled up on the massive bed, muttered a prayer against scratching herself raw, and drifted into heavy, drugged sleep.
Meanwhile…
Jacob hit the hotel bar. One whiskey, then two. He told himself he deserved it after fighting contractors and tornado news.
A brunette slid onto the stool beside him, all curves and perfume. They talked. She laughed at his dry humor. She slipped him her room number.
He smiled faintly but wasn’t sure he cared. Too tired. Too tipsy.
He excused himself, stopped by the men’s room, then headed up to his suite.
Key card. Click. Door open.
Inside: a woman in his bed.
He blinked. Wow, that brunette works fast.
Still, his brain was foggy. The hotel staff must’ve let her in. Not exactly great security, but… impressive initiative.
He toed off his shoes, crossed the room, leaned down, and wrapped his arms around her.
She moaned. Not the good kind. More like a sleepy, annoyed sound.
“Shh,” he whispered against her neck, kissing her lightly. She sighed, and his lips curved into a smile.
Then his tipsy brain gave up, and he promptly fell asleep on her shoulder.
3 A.M. Knock
The banging on the door jolted Anna awake.
Still drowsy from the meds, she stumbled to the door in her T-shirt and pajama shorts.
Outside stood a hotel staffer, an elderly woman, and a wide-eyed boy.
“Ma’am,” the staffer said breathlessly, “with the tornado, we’ve run out of safe rooms. Could they perhaps use your couch? Just for tonight? The hotel will comp your meals.”
Diana looked at the kid, clutching a worn backpack. Catholic guilt and Filipino upbringing kicked in hard.
“Of course,” she said. “Come in.”
The woman kissed her hand in gratitude, the boy beamed, and Diana dragged herself back to bed.
7 A.M.
Another knock. Insistent this time.
Jacob groaned, rolled out of bed, and opened the door.
A cheerful staffer wheeled in a breakfast tray. “Complimentary! Enjoy your honeymoon, sir!”
Jacob squinted. “Honeymoon?”
Then he noticed the old lady knitting on the couch. And the boy eyeballing his croissant.
“Uh… who are you?” he asked.
The staffer beamed. “Your wife allowed them to stay. Such kindness!”
“My… wife?” Jacob muttered, running a hand over his face.
The boy reached for the tray. Jacob snatched it back. “Nope. Mine.”
The boy stuck his tongue out. Jacob almost laughed. Almost.
Still frowning, he carried a plate into the bedroom.
The Scream
“Hey,” Jacob said, nudging the woman under the sheets. “Breakfast?”
Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at him. Then at the suite. Then back at him.
Her face went pale.
“You,” she croaked. “Who are you? Why are you in my room?”
Jacob froze. “Your room? Lady, this is my room.”
They stared at each other in horror. Then—simultaneously—screamed.
From the couch outside, the old lady crossed herself furiously. “Madre de Dios…”
