Chapter 21 #2
“Sorry, we don’t have any standard rooms left.
It’s SugarFest, if you haven’t noticed.” The man—Dorian, as his name tag reads—clearly snoozed during his training video on customer service.
What’s worse, no vacancy. No room at the inn.
Cute. Our situation is far different than Mary and Joseph’s, but I’m convinced our dislike for our respective innkeepers is mutual.
Leo takes the man’s sarcasm with a good-natured nod. “Yeah, I see that. Are you saying you don’t have anything?”
“Well …” Dorian’s mouth twists, and he flicks a glance at me. “We do have the Sugar Rush Suite.”
Leo opens his wallet. “We’ll take it.” I tug his elbow, drawing his eyes to me. “What’s wrong?”
“This sounds pricey.” I keep my tone low, but out of my peripheral, I note Dorian leaning to catch my words.
I retreat a step, pulling Leo with me. “And it seems like he’s being difficult just because he can.
Like a kid who got bullied in high school for bad acne but has since developed amazing skin.
So now he criticizes everyone’s complexion. ”
Leo tilts his head as if he’s unsure whether to laugh at my unhinged assumption or snag me another Snickers bar. To be fair, I’m uncertain too. It’s been a day.
He smooths a lock of hair from my face. “Is there another hotel close?”
“Ugh, no.” Though I’m sorely tempted to return to Midge’s and demand a rematch. Winner gets to camp at her store. I totally spotted a Chesterfield sofa that looked comfortable.
“This is probably our best bet.” He squeezes my hand.
With a grimace, I return to the counter.
“What exactly is the Sugar Rush Suite? And how much is it?” I’m hoping the accommodations include more than one option for sleeping.
Perhaps a pull-out sofa, a couple of beds.
Maybe an extra room entirely. Gran and I once stayed at an Embassy Suites, and the front desk manager upgraded our room because the air conditioner had broken in the one we booked.
I ended up having my own space with my own bathroom. It was almost like a tiny apartment.
Dorian’s beady gaze settles on me. “It’s fifteen hundred dollars. Plus tax.”
“What?! For a single night?” Do they have diamond-studded toothbrushes? Bed sheets woven with gold-silk thread? For the love. “Why so much?”
“It’s the honeymoon package.”
Oh gosh.
He lifts a flyer and reads in a monotone voice, “The Sugar Rush Suite is designed to enhance romance. The amenities include a heart-shaped jacuzzi and private balcony.” He pauses to yawn.
“It comes with a three-hundred-dollar credit to the hotel shop, which has everything from nail files to formalwear. And two tickets to tonight’s Dough Ball. ”
I’m not about to ask what the Dough Ball is. “Can’t you de-package it? We don’t need all that extra stuff.” And I’m trying very hard not to think about staying in one room with Leo.
“Sorry, miss.” Dorian does not look sorry. “I’m just the front desk agent.”
“Can I speak with a manager?”
“She’s judging the Sugar Cookie Icing Competition.
It may be a while.” A petite brunette walks past, and Dorian totally checks her out, following her with his gaze until she disappears down the hall.
He seems to remember we’re standing here and shrugs.
“Since I’m unauthorized to hold the room without a deposit, I can’t guarantee no one else will claim it, considering it’s the last one we have and the weather’s getting worse. So …”
“I hope all your zits return.”
“What?”
“We’ll take it.” Leo presses his palm to my back, and with his free hand, gives Dorian his card.
My shoulders slump, all fight is lost. “Are you sure?”
“It’ll be okay,” he says soothingly. I know fifteen hundred dollars is nothing to someone like Leo, but I can’t even fathom paying this much for a hotel room. Maybe for one in Paris overlooking the Eiffel Tower, but not in Northern Ohio with a view of a rusty water tower.
While Leo’s paying for the room, I text Tilly, letting her know I won’t make it for girls’ night.
She suggests we reschedule for tomorrow.
I don’t tell her about my new lodging situation with Leo.
I’m still trying to process it myself. We have no extra clothes.
No things whatsoever. Well, that’s not exactly true.
I slap a hand to my forehead. The antiques!
“I’ll be right back,” I blurt before darting back into the cold.
Of all the days to wear heels instead of boots.
If anyone looks out their windows, they’ll see me high-stepping as if I’m reenacting my marching band era.
All because my wimpy ankles protest being submerged in snow.
I grab the Christmas decorations from the back of the car.
It’s less about someone stealing a boring-looking tub and more about the extreme cold.
Mom may have ruined the paint on a few bulbs, but temperature fluctuations can make glass susceptible to cracks and brittleness.
So I lug the bulky container into the hotel and meet a confused Leo by the elevator.
He pushes the up button, then lifts the tub from my hands. “I would’ve gotten this for you.” He seems mildly offended I didn’t ask. “I take it that whatever’s inside is worth rushing outside in a ten-degree blizzard.”
The doors ding open. “Those are Gran’s antiques.
Long story, but it was a rescue mission,” I say as we step into the elevator.
“I got them from Pap’s this morning before dashing off in a competitive fury.
” Which was all for nothing. “Antiques don’t hold up well in extreme temps. I didn’t want to risk it.”
He nods and hits the floor button with his elbow. “Good idea.”
I fix my tired stare on my shoes, trying not to think of how I got here. The elevator starts, and my stomach flips. Though I’m unsure if my roiling gut is caused by a turbulent lift ride or the fact that I’m spending the night with Leo. “I’ll, uh, split the room cost.”
“It’s all good.” Something sparks in his dark eyes. “Fifteen hundred dollars is a small price to make your dreams come true.”
My shocked squeak bounces off the walls. “Leo Mathis, what are you talking about?”
His grin turns mischievous. “You’re the one who’s been dying to know what I wear to sleep. You finally get your answer.”
Then I realize what he’s doing. He’s trying to nudge me out of my hazy funk. All day I’ve been … off. Like the second I get close to finding my equilibrium, something knocks me off balance. Oddly enough, Leo’s teasing helps ground me.
I playfully knock his shoulder with mine. “Well, I’m looking at what you’re sleeping in. We don’t have any extra clothes.”
“Says who?” His smile is smug, and I have the unholy urge to kiss it. “I have clean hoodies and sweats in my gym bag.”
My skin nearly screams to get out of this jumper. A girl can only wear wool for so long. “Are you planning on sharing the goods?”
“I am.”
I look at Leo like he’s a Fabergé egg. “Thank you.”
The elevator opens, reminding me of our destination. The honeymoon suite.
I follow Leo down the hall and sputter a laugh. “I’m guessing the door with the vinyl conversation hearts all over it is the Sugar Rush Room.” My gaze skims over the bold colored words shaped like the popular candy—Luv Machine, Bae-Watch, U R My Boo Thang.
Keeping it classy, Sugarvale Inn.
“You’d be correct.” He carefully places the tub on the floor and inserts the key card in the door slot. The corners of his mouth lift. “Want me to carry you over the threshold?”
I snort. “Don’t you dare. I’m freaking out as it is.” I meant it as a joke, but the smile drops from his face.
“You’re safe with me.” His tone’s both soft and adamant.
“You know that, right?” I’ve read novels where the hero declares to set the world ablaze for the heroine, as if it’s some romantic gesture to incinerate humankind on a woman’s behalf.
With Leo? He’d be the one to carry me out of the flames, to do everything in his power to protect me from the fire.
I place a hand on his arm, reassuring him. “I know.” And with that, I step into the honeymoon suite. “Uhh … Wow.”
Leo trails behind, bringing in my tub and closing the door. I turn to watch his initial reaction to the space and am not disappointed. His eyes widen in a what-is-happening kind of way.
Iridescent inflatable chairs shaped like gummy bears are positioned on a waffle-cone-print rug.
The king-sized mattress is framed by four bedposts wrapped in red and white crepe paper to resemble peppermint sticks.
Mr. and Mrs. Claus sugar cookies are on fluffy marshmallow pillows.
A strip of multi-colored LED lights runs around the entirety of the space, where the walls meet the ceiling.
It’s gloriously tacky.
Leo palms his neck and sighs. “Looks like someone had fun on Temu.”
I laugh. “It’s so ridiculous, it almost doesn’t feel real.” But it is. Today has officially clenched the title of the weirdest day of my life. And I’ve had some strong contenders.
The infamous heart-shaped jacuzzi tub is in the far corner, but thankfully, there’s a shower in the bathroom to the right.
Leo slides his gym bag off his shoulder and sets it by an oversized gummy bear. He removes his jacket, revealing a button-down shirt. My sneaking glance must be more obvious than I think because he catches me. “What?”
“You’re dressed up more than usual. Did you miss something important today?” A date, maybe? Not that it’s any of my business.
He shakes his head. “Something for work, but it’s not a big deal. Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Me too.” He moves to the desk that is surprisingly normal, as if the design funding got cut off once they reached the far side of the suite. “Let’s get room service.”
“You’ve spent enough already. Can we subsist on vending machine junk? It’s a challenge I’m willing to accept.”
“It’s fine, really.” He plucks a menu from the desktop. Along with the menu, there’s an agenda for the SugarFest events and a brochure with “Things to Do” around the area.
I pick up the brochure. It’s outdated, the pages are wrinkly, and I wince at all the germs no doubt layering every inch of this thing. As I leaf through it, a familiar storefront catches my eye. “The Antique Emporium.” I show Leo the picture. “I completely forgot about Alice’s place.”
“Who’s Alice?”
“She’s another antique dealer. I haven’t been in contact with her for years, but it might be worth checking with her for the Vallerton. She’s old school, like Midge. No online presence.” I point to where there’s only an address and phone listed. “I’ll call her in the morning when she reopens.”
He nods. “Maybe we can hit the place tomorrow before we head back.”
In my search for the Vallerton, I’ve neglected my Secret Santa duty.
I left the folder in the car and am not motivated to retrieve it.
Maybe I can take a break from everything tonight.
Yet I’m running out of time as it is. Today’s the seventh, which means I have less than two weeks to find my recipient.
“Looks like we need a Plan B.” Leo’s voice cuts through my overthinking.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no room service tonight because the kitchen’s preparing for the Dough Ball.” He picks up the SugarFest flyer.
I join him in reading the paper. The Dough Ball is a fundraiser event for next year’s SugarFest. “It’s a weirdly clever play on words.”
His eyes meet mine. “The room package comes with two tickets.”
I scoff. “You seriously want to attend?”
He flicks the corner of the page. “They’re serving sirloin and shrimp.”
“Enough said.” But then. “Wait. Is there a dress code?” I glance at Leo’s dirt-stained pants, which I doubt qualifies for ballroom attire.
“Ah, but don’t forget.” He grabs my hand. “We also have store credit.”
I catch on to his reasoning. “Which, according to Dorian the Dubious, has everything from nail files to formalwear.”
Time for shopping.