“Probably.”
“Great. Can’t wait.”
Her sarcasm fills the cab, scraping across my nerves. I grit my teeth, eyes locked on the snow-blurred road. The wipers thump in rhythm with my pulse, every sound louder than it should be.
We crawl the five miles in tense silence, both pretending not to notice the way the heater can’t keep up or how the snow’s thickened into a white curtain. When the neon Valley View Inn sign finally cuts through the storm, blinking like it’s on life support, I could almost laugh.
“Five-star accommodations, huh?” she mutters.
“Don’t push it.”
The truck whines in the cold. There are maybe a dozen cars, each blanketed in snow. The office glows dull yellow behind a fogged window, a plastic Santa slumped beside the door like even he gave up on this place.
I kill the engine and shove my door open. “Stay here. I’ll check.”
“Not a chance.” She’s already unbuckling, climbing out after me. The wind whips her hood off, sending strands of hair flying around her face. She crosses her arms, chin tilted like she’s daring me to argue. I don’t. I’m too damn tired.
Inside, the lobby smells like burnt coffee and pine-scented cleaner. A bored-looking guy in a flannel shirt glances up from behind the counter.
“Need a room?”
“Yeah. Just one night.”
He taps at an ancient computer, squinting. “You’re in luck. Got one left.”
“Perfect,” I say, already fishing out my wallet.
Behind me, Hailey’s rubbing her arms, eyeing the faded wreath on the wall. “One left?”
The guy nods. “Room 7. Queen bed. Heat works and so does the cable… most of the time.”
I feel her stare hit the side of my face. “One bed?”
“Afraid so.”
She groans under her breath, muttering something about karma. I hand over my card anyway, sign the receipt, and take the single key he slides across the counter on a cracked plastic fob.
Outside again, the snow’s piling fast. The walk to the room is maybe fifty feet but feels like a mile. The wind bites, the cold seeping through my coat. She trudges behind me, suitcase bumping against her boots.
When we finally step inside, the heat hits like a furnace blast. The room’s small. There’s one sagging queen bed, a floral comforter, and a single lamp flickering on the nightstand. There’s a tiny table, a bathroom door that looks like it’s been kicked more than once, and an ancient space heater humming in the corner.
“Well,” she says, dropping her bag with a thud, “I guess there’s a first time for bedbugs.”
I toss the key on the table and shed my coat, shake off the snow, and toe off my boots. She stands there watching me like she’s waiting for instructions.
“You want the first shower?” I ask.
She hesitates. “You can. I’m still thawing out.”
I grab the bag with my change of clothes and head into the bathroom. The mirror’s cracked, the light’s buzzing, but the water runs hot. I let it beat the cold and the anger out of me until my shoulders stop aching. The steam stays trapped in the small bathroom, the overhead fan doing nothing to help. By the time I’m done showering, it’s almost stifling.
When I step out, towel slung around my waist, she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She’s pulled her hair down and it’s fallen over her shoulder. She’s smiling at her phone, eyes bright. Nothing like the grumpy, cookie-crumb-throwing woman from earlier.
She glances up and I see her try to hide her reaction to seeing me in nothing but a towel, but she fails miserably.
“Feel better?”
“Somewhat.”
