Page 104 of Beautiful Secrets
“Bed and breakfast.” He glances at me in the mirror. “What, you don’t have those in Russia?”
“Of course we do. But we call it bed and breakfast, not this b-and-b,” I say, lifting my nose at him. “Now please hurry.”
He just shakes his head as he guides the car off the road. We sit for a second, perhaps both hoping the rain will magically let up, but it only drums harder.
I try the door handle, but Cole must have locked it after—
After what, Mika? Are you too shy to even think it?
After I fucked him in the back seat of his car like a prostitute.
Cole hesitates for a second with a hand on his door handle, and then he takes off his suit jacket and holds it over his head.
“I think your hair will be fine,” I tell him dryly.
He gives me a deadpan look before jumping out of his seat, slamming the door, and coming around the back of the car.
My door opens, and he holds his jacket up like a makeshift umbrella.
“You coming or what?” he yells over the sudden rumble of thunder.
The rain is bucketing down on his head, his shirt—everything.
I suddenly feel very bad for making fun of his hair.
He keeps the jacket up as I slip out of the car, and kicks the door closed behind me. Despite his best efforts, I still get a few raindrops on my arm, and I squeal at how cold they are compared with the warm, almost stuffy cabin of Cole’s car.
“Come on. Rain’s gonna soak us through.” He uses an elbow to herd me forward.
At first I don’t even know where he is headed, but then I see the vague shape of a boxy little house—two floors—surrounded by trees.
It might have been picturesque if everything around it was not as sad and wet. Thankfully, once we take the steps up to the white-washed wrap-around porch, we leave the worst of the rain behind.
Until a gust of wind slams what feels like the equivalent of a bucket of water into me.
I gasp, going onto my tiptoes as I crowd against Cole, somehow imagining his body would protect me.
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close, gritting his teeth as the wind plasters his wet hair over his forehead.
“Christ, did we summon Cthulhu or something?”
“Who is Cthulhu?” I yell back.
“Not who, what.” He drags me over the porch and hammers a fist against the door. “Oi!”
There’s another blast of wind and icy rain before the door opens and a tall, bald man glares out at us. “What’s this noise?”
“It’s pissing, mate,” Cole says, shouldering us past the man.
The owner closes the door behind us, and heads for the counter—but with a glare thrown over his shoulder like he is not happy to see us.
Judging from the steaming cup besides an upside-down book with tattered pages, we interrupted his tea.
“You missed check-in,” he says, pointing at a piece of paper stuck up with thumbtacks on the outside of the counter.
“Did I mention the storm?” Cole asks, surprisingly cheerful-sounding despite the man’s rudeness.
“Aye,” the man says, giving us both another glare. “Ain’t my fault, is it?”
