We sprint, laughing like idiots, into the rain.
We make it two steps before she veers off course. “Where are you going?” I shout over the rain, turning back.
Manuela just laughs and runs the long way around the courtyard, cutting a wide, unnecessary arc past a fountain and under the tree dripping with golden leaves. Her shoes splashthrough shallow puddles, her arms lifted like she’s trying to fly. Her body is loose, a little wilder than usual, wine still warm in her system.
It’s ridiculous.
I follow.
By the time I catch up to her at the entrance to the bed and breakfast, we’re both soaked, breathless, and grinning like idiots.
“Very dramatic,” I say, pushing the door open for her.
“Thank you,” she says, stepping past me into the warmth of the lobby. “I love committing to a bit.”
The front desk is barely more than a counter with a bell. A man in his fifties who looks suspiciously like the man at the restaurant looks up from behind a wooden partition, already holding a key.
“You are the one from the restaurant, yes?” he asks in accented English.
“Yep,” I say.
He checks something on a clipboard and nods once. “Only one room available tonight. Twin beds.”
Manuela nods. “Perfect.”
We exchange glances. I keep my face neutral. This is fine. Not ideal, of course. But manageable as two grown adults in their mid-thirties.
“Do you have a toiletry kit?” Manuela asks, leaning on the counter. Her hair is plastered to her face, and some loose strands are slowly dripping water. “Like toothbrush and toothpaste?”
“In the room, yes.”
“Thank you,” she says, turning to look at me.
The room is on the second floor, past a narrow spiral staircase and a corridor lined with old photographs of the town—black-and-white prints of snow-covered roofs and fishermen bythe lake. The waterfall during the four seasons, clear indications of each one by the trees surrounding the pool at the bottom.
At the end of the hallway, I unlock the door. Manuela steps in first.
And stops. “Oh.”
The “twin beds” are here, alright—pushed together like a single queen bed, dressed in one enormous white duvet. No space between them. Zero separation.
“Oh,” she says again.
I run a hand through my damp hair. “I’ll go back down. See if the man can pull them apart.”
She kicks off her wet shoes and peels off her sweater. The long sleeve tee she’s wearing underneath is damp, especially in the shoulder area, and sticks to her body. “Okay.”
“It’ll take two minutes.”
“Nothing ever takes two minutes.” She laughs, soft and buzzed, making her way to the tiny bathroom by the door. I hear the shower turn on and stand there like an idiot, waiting for my body to react to what is happening. “I don’t mind, just don’t steal the covers.”
“Okay, then,” I say. But even as I head for the door, I know I don’t love the idea of crawling under one blanket and pretending the lack of space doesn’t matter. She might not mind, but I do. Not because of her, but because of me. Because two weeks in close quarters with her is already dangerous, and one bed pretending to be two feels like a line I shouldn’t be so quick to blur. “I’ll be right back.”
By the time I get downstairs and back—after ringing the bell three times and getting no answer and then making my way to the restaurant to find it locked—she’s out cold. Fully under the shared duvet, limbs sprawled diagonally across both beds like it’s her birthright.
I stand in the doorway, staring at the scene like a fool, again.
Maybe if I can find another duvet, I can make a bed on the floor. There are enough pillows for me to be able to sleep semi-comfortably. Admittedly, I haven’t been camping in decades, and even then, it was much more luxurious than just a sleeping bag on the floor.
