Page 43 of Stuck With the Best Man

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. This can’t be happening.

“I know,” I admit.

“We need to find a hotel for the night.”

“A hotel?”

“I’ll pay for you to have your own room, of course. It sounds like the storm should pass overnight, so we can head out early in the morning. I can’t guarantee we’ll make it in time for your class, though.”

I stare at him while he stares at the unfamiliar road ahead. The traffic slowly drifts away around us as people head off on their own respective journeys to safety.

I realize that I don’t really have any other choice. I can’t ask Ben to risk his life—and his precious Porsche—just so that I can make it to the studio in the morning. It’s not that crucial. If I send the instructor an email tonight explaining the situation, I’m certain that she’ll understand. In five years with the company, I’ve never missed a single class. This will be the first ever blip on my record. The first imperfection.

As long as I’m in the studio by Wednesday, when rehearsals for the season officially begin, everything will be fine. There’s no way this storm can keep me away from New York for two entire days, is there?

My stomach churns with nausea. Still, I need to be reasonable about this.

The fact of the matter is that I would much rather wait out this storm in a warm bed than remain cooped up in a car with Ben on these treacherous roads.

Honestly, even though I told him I wouldn’t be able to sleep until we reached New York, I think I’d give anything for a bed right now. Even if it’s not my own. This has been a long, insanely frustrating day. I need some privacy. I need to stretch and roll out my muscles. I need to put on the pair of soft-soled ballet slippers I have stowed away in my bag and run through some simple combinations.

“Okay,” I say at last. “Yes, fine. Let’s find somewhere to stay for the night. I’ll look for the nearest hotel.”

“Sounds good.”

Unfortunately, we’re not the only travelers who have decided it’s best to get off the road. The online reservation sites are clocking and it’s impossible to get through on the phone. We head to the nearest hotel fifteen miles north, but it’s obviously at full capacity. The clogged parking lot and glaringno vacancysign is visible even through the stormy nighttime gloom.

The second option, a rundown motel located another five miles west, is also at full capacity. They don’t have a sign announcing it, though. Ben has to run inside to talk to the front desk attendant, then run back out to the car to deliver the news. In just that short amount of time, his shirt is practically soaked through. I do my very best to ignore the way it clings to his toned chest and stomach.

Droplets of water drip down his face. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, but not before I notice one droplet slip past his lips. I must be more tired than I thought, but it’s suddenly hitting me all over again just how gorgeous he is.

I clear my throat, forcing all of those thoughts away. “We’ll keep trying. Let’s head further north”

“Roger that.”

Throughout this entire fiasco, Ben has remained reasonably pleasant. Even now, he has the patience to deliver a lighthearted response to me. Meanwhile, I’ve been nothing but difficult and surly. Maybe I really am the problem. Maybe it’s true that everyone in the world likes Ben and the only reason I didn’t—Idon’t—is because there’s something wrong with me.

I turn back to my phone and direct Ben to the third hotel option.

When we realize that one is also full for the night, we sit in the parking lot and stare at the warm glow of lights inside the building for several long minutes.

The fourth, a motel which looked fully operable online, is apparently permanently shut down. The windows are all boarded up and someone has graffitied the front of the building.

“Nope,” Ben mutters, immediately executing a U-turn and pulling out of the lot.

Our fifth option is another fifteen-minute drive in the general direction of Springfield. At this point, we’ve crossed right back into Massachusetts, but about as far from the Cape as we can get while still being within state lines and not all the way west to the Berkshires. I hope everyone in Mermaid Shores is staying safe. A storm like this will be even more ferocious on the coastline.

I’m definitely the worst granddaughter in the world for not making sure Gram was alright before I hung up on her. I’ll call her in the morning and apologize, then have a fresh bouquet of sunflowers sent to her house.

When Ben pulls into the parking lot of the fifth option, a motel, thevacancysign is flashing bright blue in the window. In unison, we exhale in relief. It’s a bare-basics type of place, but as long as there’s a bed and a roof over my head, I have no intention of complaining about anything.

Beyond the car, the wind howls ominously.

Chapter Fourteen: Ben

“WelcometoMotelMonson,”says the older woman behind the front desk with a bland smile. She looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else than working through a major storm.

“Hi, there,” I say in a smooth, personable tone despite the fact that I am exhausted, rattled, and have a headache coming on. “We need two rooms, if possible.”

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