But sure enough, it’s steam. And there’s a lot of it.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mutter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Romilly’s eyes widen. “Seriously? After you just said your car was good?”
“Oh, believe me. The irony is not lost on me, Romilly.”
“I thought you said a mechanic looked at it.”
“A very cheap mechanic.” I hang my head and pull off to the side of the road to get out. Unlatching the hood, I peer into the maze of metal, tubes, and unknown liquids. If only my dad taught me how to decipher this mess instead of how to overprice items for auction. Anytime I’d expressed an interest in learning, he’d say, “But why go through all that when you can pay someone else to do it?”
Now, I feel like a fool. I may be able to jab my way to victory in the ring, or charm my way through a room full of snobs who’d typically look down on me, but what good is any of that now?
Romilly gets out of the car, the torch from her phone illuminated. She shines the light onto the hood. “It has to be your blown head gasket still,” she says, fidgeting with the strand of pearls around her neck. “We’ll have to call a tow truck so they can get it to a real mechanic. Hopefully, we’ll be back on the road by morning.”
“By morning?” My eyes widen. “But…Romilly. My fight is tomorrow.”
“I know, but you can’t drive it like this. There’s no way.” She hugs her arms around herself. “We could call someone to pick us up, but then we’d have to leave your car here. We’re better off just finding somewhere to stay tonight while we wait.”
My shoulders sag. The highway stretches endlessly in both directions, framed by dense woods on either side. The occasional whoosh of a passing car is the only sound breaking the eerie quiet.
Romilly looks up the tow truck company on her phone and dials the number, not wasting any time. I tune her out as she explains our situation.
My gaze snags on a tiny inn within walking distance from the highway exit. Its wooden sign, faintly lit by a flickering lantern, readsWhispering Pines Inn.The building is small and rustic, with ivy creeping up its stone exterior and warm light spilling from the windows. “How about there?” I ask when she hangs up.
She glances at the inn and then at me. “Um, sure. The tow truck is going to take your car to a mechanic, and we’ll get a call tomorrow when it’s done. So that works.”
We walk to the inn together, and the gravel shoulder of the road crunches beneath our shoes and rolling luggage as we go.The air is brisk, and the fog seems even thicker off the highway, curling around us like ghostly tendrils.
When we’re up close, I can’t help but notice the vintage style of the place. The front porch is framed by wooden beams and flower boxes overflowing with colorful pumpkins and hay. A bell rings as I push open the heavy oak door, stepping in after Romilly.
She beams. “Are you kidding me? Bash, this place is so cute.”
I look around, trying to see our surroundings through her adorably rose-tinted glasses. The lobby is small but inviting, with a stone fireplace crackling in the corner and leather armchairs arranged around a worn coffee table. The faint scent of pine and something sweet like fresh-baked cookies lingers in the air. It’s nothing like the five-star hotels I’ve stayed at in the past, but it’s somehow just as appealing.
A woman stands behind the front desk, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a bun. She looks up with a smile. “Welcome to Whispering Pines Inn. How can I help you?”
I step forward. “We need two rooms for the night, please.”
Her smile falters. “Oh dear. I’m afraid we only have one room available for tonight.”
I blink at her, sure I must’ve misheard. “Only one room?”
“Yes. We’re usually quiet this time of year, but we’ve had a full house since yesterday, thanks to a nearby wedding. It’s just the one left, with a queen bed.”
Romilly clears her throat beside me, and I glance at her. A fierce blush appears on her cheeks, though whether from the chilly walk or the current predicament, I’m not sure. “That’s fine,” she says.
I arch a brow, waiting for her to change her mind, but when she doesn’t, I sigh and reach for my wallet. “All right, we’ll take it.”
The woman slides a key across the counter. “Room 4. Up the stairs and to your left.”
We make our way to the room in silence. The sound of our footsteps is muffled by the thick green and brown patterned carpet. Our key sticks a little in the lock, but after a moment of jiggling, the door swings open.
The room is so small, it’s practically dominated by the bed. I step inside and wrinkle my nose in distaste at the antiquated decor. At least the bed looks sturdy on its wooden frame. The last thing we need is a room as fragile as my car.
But Romilly practically skips through the doorway. She turns on the soft lamplight and sets her purse on the single armchair sitting in the corner next to a little round table. “This is adorably quaint.”
“Quaint is one word for it,” I mutter, setting the rest of our bags down by the chair. “Don’t worry—I’ll take the floor.”
