Page 27 of Handle with Care
“Ha. I knew you weren’t feeling well. C’mon, let’s go into the village, at least, and stretch our legs. We don’t have to eat anything.”
We drive the five minutes into the village in silence. Will parks, then rests his head against the steering wheel over his folded arms, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Okay, now you’re legit scaring me. What’s wrong?” Frowning, my hand hovers over his shoulder, not sure whether to touch him. I pull my hand back. We don’t have a touching kind of relationship.
I hear him draw a couple of deep breaths. “I feel poorly,” he concedes at last. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
Even his suffering is kind of adorable. Who says “I feel poorly” outside of the nineteenth century? And I’m a museum pro. I should know.
“Huh. Right, I can see that. Not the first time a man’s used that line on me. What can I do?”
Will makes a sound between a laugh and a groan. He doesn’t move or say anything for a moment. Then, he springs out of the Land Rover, walks a few steps, and vomits into some shrubs along the side of the road. Will stands out there, staring into the distance before he comes back to sag into the driver’s seat. He closes his eyes.
“Fuck, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Migraine.”
“You could have told me that. Do you want me to drive us back to London?” Admittedly, it’s right-hand drive, and I’ve never driven an SUV before, but I’d do it to get him back to London.
“No.”
“I know you’re precious about your car, but?—”
“It’s… it’s the insurance.” Will’s blunt, grimacing. “You’re not on it.”
“I wasn’t the one who swerved back there, by the way.” But then I let it go because he looks like a whole mess.
I glance around. There’s a low building across from us, made of stone like the rest of the village, more or less. It looks residential, terrace houses. There’s a corner shop and an antique shop, neither of which is too helpful. I pull out my phone and look at nearby options. There’s a pub with a hotel a short walk away from this parking area, along with a Boots. Though nothing is too far in this village. Which, given the current situation, is probably a good thing.
Will’s still sitting back in his seat, eyes closed, with his hair rumpled.
“’Kay. I’m making an executive decision. Stay right there.”
He makes no effort to move and stays right there without a peep of protest. I slide out of the SUV, determined. Someone’s got to do the problem-solving here. I walk down the sunny lane, following the map on my phone to the pub. Seventeenth-century pub, according to Google, and it’s a cool old building. I go in, and it’s everything you’d expect an old pub like that to be: dark, compact, wood-beamed. I go to the bar, and the woman who’s working doesn’t seem to be much older than me. The pub is busy on Friday afternoon, and I wait my turn in the queue.
At last, she turns to me, giving me the once-over, which ordinarily I would appreciate and bask in the attention. But now, I’m too worried for that. “Who do I talk to about getting a room at your inn?”
Honestly, it feels like I’m living a surreal sort of episode out of one of the thick fantasy books I like to read now and again, pulling up with my horse in the stables for a night in the tavern.
“Ooh, I don’t know if we have any rooms left. I mean, it’s July, the height of our season.” She nods at the busy pub. “We’re sold out. And they’re sold out across the way, too, at the hotel.”
“Shit.” My face falls, and I slump. I must look desperate, and she relents.
“I can check.”
“Please. My friend’s quite sick. I’d appreciate if you could.”
She nods and calls over her colleague, who goes off to investigate. Meanwhile, I sit on a stool, glum. Who knew getting stuck in a postcard village could be such a downer? I’m sure people come from all over to take in the sights here and explore the area. But right now, it’s all lost on me, worrying about Will. I left the door open for some fresh air so it didn’t get too hot in the car, but I don’t want to leave him for long. I scroll quickly through my phone, looking for other options.
Worst case, maybe I could convince him to let me drive to the next village. Maybe I can make some calls around to see if there’s any place to stay nearby. Maybe a bed-and-breakfast or, hell, camping if we’re desperate. We could pull out somewhere in the countryside. That Land Rover should come with a tent and camping supplies?—
I’m cut off in the midst of my spiraling worries and plans.
“You might be in luck,” says the woman, looking at me curiously. “We’ve had a cancellation for tonight, and I don’t know if you?—”
“I’ll take it.” I immediately produce my credit card and hand it over. “Please.”
She gives me a wry smile and hands over the key. “It’s upstairs. Room 7. Do you want to see it first?”
