The Floorboard Is a Liar

“Stop looking at the roof like you’re trying to will the rain away, Tessa. It’s just water. And your name is Maria.”

I didn’t blink. I kept my eyes on the galvanized steel seam where the condensation was pooling, dripping in a steady, mocking rhythm onto the wooden deck of the top loft. We were in the highest room of my cloud forest hotel, the one I’d built with my own hands, three stories up in the canopy of the Monteverde reserve. He was leaning against the railing, watching me watch the leak.

Alex. Or rather, the man who had destroyed my first inn’s reputation with a three-star review about “rustic charm” five years ago, now pretending to be a quiet graphic designer named Marcus.