“I probably already did,” she says before pausing. “Maybe next time you kiss me, try not to ignore me right afterwards for data?”
“It will never happen again.” That is a promise I can keep.
Up ahead, the glowing motel sign finally comes into view through the rain and darkness, both of us spotting it at the same time.
“There's the motel sign,” I say, spotting the flickering neon through the rain.
I pull into the parking lot, tires splashing through puddles that have already formed in the cracked asphalt. The motel is a single-story L-shaped building with peeling paint and doors that have seen better decades. But the vacancy sign is lit, and right now, that's all that matters.
“Wait here,” I tell Lila. “I'll check us in and come back for you.”
For once, she doesn't argue. That worries me more than her injury.
I dash through the downpour to the office, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as I enter. The lobby, if you can call it that, consists of a small front desk with a bell and walls covered in faded wood paneling. A middle-aged woman with teased blonde hair looks up from her romance novel, giving me a once-over that feels more like a twice-over.
“Evening,” she drawls, dog-earing her page. “Some weather we're having.”
“I need two rooms, please. Pet-friendly.”
She taps at an ancient computer, the click of her long acrylic nails against the keyboard unnervingly loud in the quiet office. “Two rooms,” she repeats, frowning at the screen. “Well, that's going to be a problem.”
My stomach drops.
“I’ve got one left.” She clicks her tongue like this is mildly inconvenient and not the beginning of my personal nightmare. “Tornado warning sent everyone running for cover. Had a travel baseball team roll in and wipe out almost every room.” She glances back at the screen. “Take it or leave it.”
“One room,” I repeat, because my brain has apparently stopped producing original thoughts.
She nods. “Mm-hmm.”
There is a pause. A very loaded pause.
“The honeymoon suite.” She smiles, and it is not a comforting smile. It is the smile of someone who knows exactly how this is about to go for me.
I stare at her. “Is there anything else? A storage closet? A hallway? I am extremely flexible.”
She taps a few keys like she’s really checking. “I could offer you the ice machine.”
“Does it come with a bed?”
“No.”
“Anything else?” I try again, making one last attempt to defy reality.
“Not unless you want to keep driving in that.”
I glance outside at the rain slanting sideways, lightning flashing like the universe is actively mocking me, then look back at her.
“Are there other motels in town that might have two rooms?”
“Honey, there are three motels in this town, and they’re all packed with people running from the storm.” She gestures toward the window as lightning flares on cue. “You’re lucky I’ve got anything left.”
I glance back toward the truck where Lila’s silhouette is visible through the rain-streaked glass. She needs rest. A real bed. Somewhere warm and dry.
“I’ll take it,” I decide, pulling out my university credit card. “How much?”
“Eighty-nine ninety-five.” She eyes the card. “Plus tax. And a twenty-dollar pet deposit.”
I nod, trying not to think about explaining this expense to the university accounting department. 'Dear Financial Services, The honeymoon suite was a necessity.'
