In a warped way, the evening morphs into my lucky night. Now, I won’t be left biting my fingernails off worrying the lady I am possibly falling for will turn into a popsicle in a frozen ditch.
Like most things, though, the situation is good news-bad news. No truck. No car.
Just one motel room.
With just one bed.
Chapter 20
Everly
Knox’s adorableness rockets off the charts when he’s nervous.
He paces the room, fisting and un-fisting his hands. I tamp down a snicker and drop onto the end of the worn bedspread.
By rights, I’m the one who should be in a dither. I’m the injured damsel in distress, eyeing my would-be hero with a cynically skeptical eye. I mean, this could all be a ruse to get me into his clutches, right?
Wrong. That’s a pretty outdated trope, for one, and besides, it was my car that wouldn’t start. Plus, I hardly think he summoned the sleet to do his bidding. The only part that requires good faith is trusting that there are in truth no other rooms at the inn. I stayed in the car while he checked at the office, but I was sitting right here twiddling my thumbs when he tried to get in touch with Cliff to see if they could double up for the night. His call went unanswered.
Knox pauses at the edge of the alcove housing the sink and mirror. His hair is darker than usual, courtesy of the sleet, and a tuft of hair sprouts from the side of his head, ruffled from running nervous hands through it. “How’s your ankle feeling?”
“Hurts.” At this point, I might as well be honest.
He rifles through some toiletries scattered about the short bathroom counter and brings me two ibuprofen and tap water in a cup he unwrapped.
“Thanks.” I swallow the pills and hand back the cup, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Um, I hate to say this, but—”
His jaw tenses.
“I need to use the little girls’ room.”
Knox visibly exhales. What did he think I was about to say?
He offers his arm and helps me to the bathroom. The counter around the sink is neither tidy nor messy. A can of menthol shaving cream, a razor, a toothbrush, and an uncapped tube of toothpaste.
The room housing the toilet and tub boasts nearly enough standing room for one person, so shutting the door once inside—without brushing against the toilet bowl—takes maneuvering. Golly. How does Knox even fit in here?
Better question? How does he stand living like this week after week? I suppose there are worse places, but these digs would depress me long term.
“Call me when you’re done, and I’ll help you to bed.” His throat clears. “You know what I mean.”
I smile—but only for a second, because, make no mistake, I can now mark another first off my list: first time alone in a motel, hotel, bedroom, or any other such locale with a man.
What can I say? I’m hip and cool like that.
I don’t call for Knox, yet he’s on the spot in two seconds once I flush and open the door. His suit coat is gone, and so is the kitschy tie. His top two shirt buttons are undone.
Gulp.
“I am really sorry about this, Everly.”
I school my glance away from his open collar, from this new, relaxed version of my date. Cologne overrides the musty motel room air. “It’s not your fault.”
“You should have just let me take you home in the first place.”
I stall our journey across the room. “You did not just say ‘I told you so’, did you?”
He rubs his jaw as if the question requires serious consideration. “Maybe.” His lips turn up at the ends in sheepish little curls. “Sorry.”
