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I sprint the last hundred yards, and hurl myself through the pub doors, almost falling to my (wet, soaked) knees in gratitude when I take in the toasty, bustling space: Low beams, scratched leather stools, a motley crowd of locals drinking, and,Hallelujah!, a roaring fire in the corner hearth.
I go straight over to warm my icy hands by the flames, as Fraser trails in with our bags. The barmaid pauses to take in our drowned-rat appearance. “Oh, dear. You two look like you’ve had a time of it.”
“Aye.” Fraser sinks down on a barstool beside me with clear relief.
“I’ve got cell reception!” I report excitedly… Then pause, not sure who to call.
Fraser doesn’t hesitate. “Could I please get a pint of your darkest ale, and also the number for a towing company? Much appreciated.”
“I can sort you on the ale, but I’m afraid the tow might be a little tricky.” She nods to the corner, where an old-timer is holding forth about some former sporting glory.
“… Down to the last innings, we were, but there was still some life in the old boy yet!”
“That’s Derek,” she explains. “Of Derek’s Tow and Tire.”
His cheeks are flushed, his words slurring, and he sways gently, as if he’s in a strong breeze.
Fraser and I exchange a rueful look. Derek’s not driving anywhere tonight.
“Is there nobody else?” I ask hopefully.
“Who’ll come out on a Sunday night, in this weather?” the barmaid tuts. “Sorry, love. But if you want, I’ve a room for rent upstairs. You can dry off and kip here, and be first on his list in the morning.”
Fraser and I exchange another look. “Sleep here?” I gulp. “Hugo already has a full day’s head start on us, and if we miss him in Glasgow…”
Even with all the drama and detours, I can’t forget the fact that Reeve, and Hazel, and two hundred other people on the film set are waiting for me to deliver them a Mr. Darcy—as soon as fucking possible.
But the pub is so toasty, and the rain is still pouring down outside. Then a kitchen door opens, and someone emerges with a tray of food: steaming hot pie and gravy, a massive bowl of thick-cut chips…
The scent is heavenly. My stomach rumbles. Fraser looks like a cartoon character with hearts in his eyes, gazing after the food as it passes.
“You know, we shouldn’t really be driving in this weather,” he says quickly, and just as quick, I agree.
“Hugo won’t be going anywhere in this rain, either.”
Maybe. Hopefully.
“So we stay?” Fraser asks me.
I shrug. “It doesn’t look like we’ve got much choice!”
The barmaid leads us up the back stairs to a narrow landing over the pub. “It’s nothing fancy,” she warns us, fishing out an old-fashioned key for the door at the end of the hall. “The radiators can stick, and you’ll need to yank the chain on the loo before you flush.”
“We’re not fussy,” I reassure her. “Believe me, I’ll be in heaven as long as there’s hot water, and a roof, and comfy place to sleep—”
I stop dead a few steps inside the room. It’s charming enough, full of granny-chic fabrics and antique furniture, but it’s the ancient four-poster bed in the middle of the room that makes me stop in my tracks, covered in dust ruffles and decorative pillows piled high.
Thebed.
As in, just one.
“Here we are then!” the barmaid trills, clearly not realizing she just deposited Fraser and me into our own personal fan fiction scenario. “Take your time getting settled. I’ll go pour that ale,” she adds, and then departs, leaving us alone.
I gulp. Because the last time Fraser and I were together in a room with a bed…
Let’s just say, sleeping was the last thing on our minds.
“Mmm, cozy!” I finally venture, glancing over at Fraser. Of course, he’s looking like Colin Firth himself just emerged from the lake, with his shirt plastered to his broad chest and water running in rivulets off his chiseled jaw.
