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“Fine,” Mr Rockwell clips out, then hangs up with a bit too much force. He turns to me. “How much for a room here?”
“…A room?”
“Yes.” He speaks carefully, like I’m slow. “I can’t get a mechanic out here until tomorrow. I need a room in your hotel.”
…Hotel?
I blink around the kitchen, doubtful. Did he get sunstroke out on the road? No one in their right mind would pay to stay here. The Honeycomb Hideaway is held together with cobwebs and prayers. We’re a honey business, not a vacation spot.
“We’re closed for the season,” I manage, my mind racing ahead. It’s sort of true. The bees have definitely downed tools. And I’m thinking about that pile of overdue bills. About the fact that this man has no better options out here, except maybe the nudist colony halfway up the nearest mountain.
“Yes. I can tell.”
“But I could set up a room…” He’s already nodding, so I go for broke. “For triple the usual rate.”
Why not? Rhett Rockwell can afford it.
Sure enough, he whips out his wallet. He doesn’t even ask how much I’m charging him as I dig in the drawer for the ancient card reader we keep for festivals.
Three hundred dollars, for the record. I make sure to print him a receipt. Maybe he can expense it.
Three hundred dollars for fresh sheets on my bed, and homemade honey waffles in the morning. And in return, I’ll spend a night on the sofa with Winston and get to wipe out some of those bills.
What a great deal. Everybody wins.
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