Page 72 of Business or Pleasure

“I’m from the mountains,” he says, waving this off as we head toward baggage claim to collect our luggage. “We learn how to drive in this before we learn our ABCs. Besides, they’re always overly cautious about this kind of thing.” He gives me a broad, nonchalant smile. “I’m sure it’s nowhere near as bad as they’re saying it is.”

The storm is, in fact, worse.

“What was that you said?” I ask as the rental sputters to a stop on an icy two-lane road an hour outside of Columbus. Stalled cars dot the street, drivers far smarter than us who’ve already given up. “You learned how to drive in this weather when you were how old?”

Finn wrestles with the steering wheel, pumps the gas. No luck. “I guess—it’s entirely possible it’s been a while since I drove in weather like this.”

Snow batters the windshield. This was very obviously a bad idea, and even if we could get the car to start, I’m not sure we’d be able to make it back to the city. Deadline panic creeps in, tightening my grip on my bag. All I want is my hands on the keyboard and maybe a space heater.

“We can’t just stay out here,” I say. “We’ll freeze to death.”

Finn’s already checking his phone, swearing at it when he can’t get a signal. “There was a sign for lodging about a mile back.”

Theoretically, a mile doesn’t sound like too long a walk. A mile in the snow when you can’t feel your hands and your mother’s suitcase wheels slip all over the ice: less than ideal. Finn tries his best to help, dragging both my suitcase and his while I take his backpack, promising that “We’re almost there—almost there,” his teeth chattering.

By the time we make it to the bed-and-breakfast, a charming, snow-dusted building surrounded by oak trees, nearly all the stickers on my mom’s suitcase have peeled off and I estimate I’m minutes away from succumbing to frostbite. the dollhouse inn is written on a sign out front in swirly script.

“Hello there!” says the woman behind the front desk, petite and middle-aged, with a gray bob and knitted turtleneck. “Chilly out there, isn’t it?”

“You could say that.” Finn brushes snow off his jacket with a trembling hand while I work to catch my breath. “We don’t have a reservation, but do you by any chance have a room available tonight?”

“Hmm, let’s see. We usually book pretty far in advance...” She opens up an honest-to-god reservation book, and it’s then that I notice two things.

One: there are no computers in the lobby.

And two: the place is swarming with dolls.

Antique dolls on shelves, dolls at tiny tables drinking imaginary tea, dolls dressed in Christmas sweaters, and dolls carrying tinier dolls. Every single one of them staring right at me with glassy, dead-eyed stares.

Guess the name of the inn was literal.

“It looks like we’ve got just one left! It’s the Victorian Room— lucky you. That’s my favorite.”

“We’ll take it,” I say, trying to avoid the gaze of a particularly haunted baby doll as she passes us an old-fashioned key that looks more likely to open a seventeenth-century cottage than a modern B and B. “Thank you so much. This is maybe a dumb question, but do you have Wi-Fi?”

A chuckle. “Of course we do!” she says. I feel my shoulders relax. “But it just went out. Sorry about that. We have someone coming out tomorrow to take a look—if they can make it.”

We haul our suitcases up a flight of stairs, and I swallow down a gasp when I open our room. It’s gorgeous, with a real wood-burning fireplace and luxe velvet wallpaper. There’s only one doll in here, wearing a blue-and-white-checked pinafore and a bow in her hair. She is missing an eye. I make the executive decision to hide her in a drawer, and Finn flashes me a thumbs-up.

Then I examine the rest of the room, something I probably should have done right away. Because right in the middle is an upholstered, rich emerald queen-sized bed.

Just one.

“Oh,” I say, dropping my backpack to the floor. “I could sleep in the chair, or on the floor, or—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Finn says. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

I make my way over to the bed, as though it needs inspecting. As though up close, it’ll somehow turn out to be two beds. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

This shouldn’t feel weird. We’ve had sex but haven’t slept together, and yet the idea of sleeping beside him is strangely intimate—getting to see him the moment he wakes up, still drowsy, his hair rumpled and eyes half-closed and does he sleep in a T-shirt or just boxers or—

I push this aside for now. We have bigger things to worry about.

We unpack a little, and I manage to set up my phone as a hotspot.

“I knew you liked socks, but how many pairs are in that suitc—” Finn starts.

“It doesn’t matter!” I say it too sharply, but this isn’t about the socks at all. Those chapters need to get done. I change my damp socks and then sit down with my laptop in one of two armchairs next to the fireplace, the anxiety keeping me warmer than the flames. I try to tell myself things will be okay. It’s only five o’clock, we don’t have anything else to do, and there are no dolls that may or may not be possessed by evil spirits currently watching me.

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