“I should check in,” Brody says as we reach the massive oak doors. “Get my key.”
“Right. Yeah.” My stomach drops a little at the thought of turning in for the night.
We walk into the lobby together. The evening light makes the lobby even more impressive. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace so large you could park a car in it, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the hardwood floors. Leather furniture arranged in conversation clusters. Vintage skis and snowshoes mounted on the walls, alongside black-and-white photos of the resort from decades past.
It smells like wood smoke and cinnamon and expensive candles.
The front desk attendant stands behind a massive wraparound desk, looking a little frazzled after what was likely a very busy day. She gives a little start when we step up to the desk.
“Hi,” Brody says, flashing that easy smile that probably makes people forget their own names. “Checking in. Brody Kane.”
The woman types on her computer.
Frowns.
Types some more.
The frown deepens.
Oh no.
“Is there a problem?” Brody asks.
“Um.” She glances between us, looking genuinely pained. “Mr. Kane, I have a reservation for you, but…it’s for next weekend.”
Silence.
“Next weekend?” Brody repeats.
“February nineteenth through the twenty-first.”
I watch Brody’s face. He’s trying to hide it, but I can see the frustration. The embarrassment. His jaw tightens. Shoulders tense.
And then I remember.
The dyslexia.
Numbers get jumbled sometimes. Dates. Addresses. It’s not his fault. It’s just how his brain works.
“That’s my mistake,” he says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Must have mixed up the dates when I booked.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she actually looks sorry, “but we’re completely booked this weekend. Multiple weddings, family reunions—there’s not a single room available.”
“It’s okay. I get it.” Brody pulls out his phone. “I’ll text the guys. Maybe someone has space in their room.”
He types quickly.
We wait.
His phone buzzes.
His expression says it all.
“They’re all full,” he says. “Four guys per room already.”
The attendant winces. “There are a few hotels in town. Let me check availability for you?—”
But Brody’s already pulling up his phone. Scrolling through booking sites. His expression gets grimmer with each swipe.
