“The room has one king bed,” she adds, sliding a registration card toward me. “Heart-shaped jacuzzi tub too, but I wouldn't use it if I were you. Makes strange noises.”
Of course it does.
I fill out the form quickly, acutely aware of Lila waiting in the truck. When the woman hands me the key—an actual metal key attached to a plastic heart-shaped fob—I feel like I'm accepting some sort of cosmic joke at my expense.
“Room 17,” she says, pointing vaguely to the right. “Last door on the end. Parking right in front.”
“Thank you,” I say, tucking the key into my pocket.
The rain has intensified in the few minutes I've been inside, falling in sheets that instantly soak through my new jeans as I sprint back to the truck. By the time I slide into the driver's seat, water is dripping from my hair, obscuring my vision.
“Good news and bad news,” I announce. “Good news, they have a room. Bad news, only one room.”
Lila's eyes open fully for the first time since we left the storm site. “One room?”
“The honeymoon suite, specifically,” I add, feeling heat creep up my neck. “Complete with heart-shaped jacuzzi tub that, and I quote, 'makes strange noises.'“
I expect a witty retort or at least an eye roll, but Lila just stares at me for a long moment before letting out a soft laugh that trails into a wince as the movement jostles her injured shoulder.
“Of course it does because this day couldn't get any more cliché.”
“I can sleep in the truck,” I offer immediately. “Or find somewhere else?—”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she interrupts, her good hand waving dismissively. “It's pouring, and we're both adults. We can handle sharing a bed for one night.”
My mouth goes dry at the thought. One bed. After that kiss.
“Right. Of course,” I manage, putting the truck in drive. I navigate through the flooded parking lot to room 17, pulling up as close to the door as possible to minimize Lila's exposure to the rain. “Stay here. I'll unload first and come back for you.”
“I'm not made of sugar. I won't melt.”
“No, but your bandages might get wet, and I don't have a medical degree to go with my meteorology doctorate.”
This earns me a small smile. “Fair point.”
I grab our bags from the back, along with Max's newly acquired dog supplies, and make a dash for the door. The keysticks in the lock, requiring a particular jiggle before the door finally swings open with a dramatic creak.
The honeymoon suite is exactly as tacky as I feared. Red and pink dominate the color scheme, with a massive king bed covered in a shiny polyester bedspread as the centerpiece. Heart-shaped pillows are arranged in a pattern that I suppose someone considered romantic. The promised jacuzzi tub sits in the corner, surrounded by cracked plastic mirrors.
Despite the garishness of the room, I'm relieved to have found shelter from the storm. I set our bags down and hurry back to the truck, grabbing a raincoat from my duffel to shield Lila from the downpour.
“Your palace awaits,” I say, opening her door and holding the raincoat over her like a makeshift umbrella.
She gives me a look—half amusement, half something I can't quite define—before carefully sliding out of the truck. Max jumps down after her, shaking himself vigorously and spraying water everywhere.
“Some gentleman,” Lila mutters, but she's talking to the dog, not me.
I help her toward the door, one arm around her waist, trying to ignore how perfectly she fits against my side. Her hair smells like rain and hospital antiseptic—not a combination I ever thought I'd find appealing, yet somehow it is.
Once inside, Lila stops short, taking in the full glory of the honeymoon suite.
“Wow. This is...”
“Hideous?” I suggest.
“I was going to say 'special,' but yeah, hideous works too.” She moves toward the bed and sits down gingerly on the edge. “Is that a mirror on the ceiling?”
I look up and, yes, there is indeed a mirror mounted above the bed, spotted with age and surrounded by a frame of plastic cherubs.
