“Now that,” I say, spotting a neon sign ahead that reads FRIE in flickering capital letters, with GASTHOF in smaller script underneath, “I can do.”
Kip follows my gaze to a squat building with the international look of “barely habitable lodging and questionable food” and sighs. “Tell me that’s not our only option.”
“It’s either that or sleep in the van and survive on the green tea Kit Kats buried in my duffel.” I downshift as we turn into the parking lot.
He eyes the peeling paint, the sagging roof, the cracked windows. “That looks like the start of a horror movie.”
“Or the end of a very long day,” I counter, turning off the ignition, grabbing my bag, and swinging the door open. “Take your pick.”
He mutters something about being between a rock and a hard place. But that doesn’t stop him from hopping out of the van, wrestling his suitcase from the back seat, and striding toward the entrance like he owns the bloody place.
CHAPTER 5
Kip
The door sticks before giving way with a squeal that practically begs for mercy. The lobby—if you can call a six-by-six space with a soda machine and a potted fern a lobby—is heavy with the scent of old smoke and boiled cabbage. There’s a counter in the corner with a battered bell that probably hasn’t worked since the Cold War and no sign of life behind it.
I drop my suitcase and rub the back of my neck, trying to erase some of the fatigue that’s been clinging to me since Zurich. My body feels like it’s been folded in half for hours, and the inside of my mouth tastes like stale coffee. I swear, the first thing I’m doing once we get into our room is digging out my toiletry kit and brushing my teeth. Presuming this place has running water.
Hutch wanders up beside me, full of bright-eyed optimism. “Charming, isn’t it?”
“Charming isn’t the word I’d use.” I jab the bell once. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. “You really know how to pick ’em.”
He grins, like this whole detour was some kind of adventure instead of a logistical nightmare. The kind of grin that makes mewant to either throw something at him—preferably the bell—or drag him somewhere private and kiss him just to see if his mouth tastes as good as it looks.
I lean against the counter, watching the door to the back room and praying someone will appear before I lose my mind.
“Next time,” I mutter, “I’m driving.”
Hutch snorts, propping an elbow on the counter. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You were out cold most of the way here.”
“Exactly why I’m taking the wheel next time. At least I’ll stay awake to navigate.”
He quirks a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Might have been nice if you’d tried that this time.”
I shoot him a glare, and I swear the bell chooses that instant to work out of pity for us. A woman who looks to be somewhere in her sixties appears from the back room, her expression suggesting she’s dealt with way worse than a couple of cranky foreigners. Between Hutch’s accent and my mangled attempts at politeness, we manage to secure a room—one key, two single beds, twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.
The carpet in the hallway is worn flat in the middle, and one of the lights flickers like it’s trying to warn us to turn back. Hutch unlocks the door of our room and pushes it open with the exaggerated flourish of a game show host.
“Home sweet home,” he announces.
There’s two double beds with faded floral comforters, mismatched curtains, and a radiator making ominous clanking noises. My shoulders slump. “Tell me there’s food.”
He glances toward the window, where the faint glow of the GASTHOF sign blinks through the curtains. “There’s a restaurant downstairs. If we’re lucky, they’ve got schnitzel or something else deep-fried within an inch of its life.”
I leave my suitcase by the door and sink onto the nearestbed, which creaks in protest. “I don’t have the energy to deal with people right now. Or menus in German.”
“Do you trust me to order for you?” His voice is more subdued, without any of its usual snark.
My head snaps up, thrown by the change in tone. “You don’t have to?—”
“I know.” He shrugs, already heading for the door. “But if you pass out, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
There it is. His usual snark, sliding back into place.
“At this point, I’d eat shoe leather.” My head drops back down onto the pillow.
He laughs. “Perfect. I’ll see what they’ve got on special.”
