Page 8 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

A few minutes later, the dim glow of lantern lights appeared through the downpour as we pulled up to the Cedar Springs Vintage Inn. Its ivy-covered porch and clapboard siding made it look like something out of a storybook—if the story involved two completely incompatible people about to be stuck in a room together during a Category Five rain tantrum.

Damien parked and killed the engine. “We’ll wait out the storm here.”

“Wait,” I said, frowning. “You’ve been heading here on purpose?”

“I figured it was smarter than rescuing you off the side of the road again.”

I bit back a retort and followed him up the porch, stomping through puddles as rain plastered my cardigan to my spine. The warm, cinnamon-scented air hit me like a hug when we stepped inside.

Marge appeared from behind the reception desk, her silver curls pinned in a messy bun and her smile wide. “Well, if it isn’t Cedar Springs’ newest comedy duo.”

“Marge,” I said breathlessly, “please tell me you’ve got a room.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You’re in luck. One left.”

Relief poured through me until Damien stepped forward, voice firm. “We’ll take separate keys, please.”

Marge gave a slow blink, then clucked her tongue. “Oh, honey. I said one room. Not two.”

I froze. “What do you mean one room?”

“It’s storm season, love. We’re full up. Booked solid.” She gestured to the ledger with its tidy rows of names and smiley faces. “Only thing left is the Magnolia Suite. Cozy. Romantic. Fireplace. Big bed.”

Damien and I both said at the same time, “That’s not going to work.”

Marge didn’t even blink. “Well, it’s that or the barn.”

I looked at Damien. He looked at me. The storm outside wailed louder.

“Fine,” we muttered in unison.

Marge grinned. “Excellent. You’ll love it. Snuggle Season just started.”

“Snuggle what?” Damien said, narrowing his eyes.

But Marge was already bustling away with the key, calling over her shoulder, “Check out’s at ten! Breakfast is lemon poppyseed scones!”

We climbed the stairs in silence. I refused to feel self-conscious about the squish-squish of my soaked shoes or the way my cardigan clung like an uncooperative toddler.

The Magnolia Suite was at the end of the hall.

Damien opened the door, and we both stepped inside.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

The room was warm and glowy, the fireplace crackling like it belonged in a holiday movie. There were soft blankets draped over a velvet settee, a stack of board games in the corner, and—because life is nothing if not ironic—exactly one enormous bed in the middle of the room.

A bed covered in throw pillows with phrases like “Snuggle Season,” “Cuddle Weather,” and “Let’s Stay In.”

I turned slowly to face him.

“No,” I said immediately.

“Agreed.”

“We can make a pillow wall.”

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