Page 31 of The Holiday Fakers
“Stop! We’re not staying here!” I yell, a little too loudly.
The silence that follows is deafening. I swear I can hear each tiny snowflake falling around us.
“What was that, baby?”
Brody’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He still looks frozen with shock.
“We’re not staying here,” I repeat.
Mom looks utterly confused, as if their house is the only building for a thousand miles. “But … whereareyou staying?”
“The Hideaway Hotel.”
Her jaw drops like we’re electing to sleep in a barn, and not the fanciest place in town. “But why?”
Good question.“Because …”
“But your bedroom has a big enough bed for the two of you,” she continues. “We bought a new one, especially.”
Oh no…
“And it’s right at the end of the hall, so there’s plenty of privacy for snuggle time. We won’t hear a thing.”
I cringe. Mom’s euphemism for sex is “snuggle time,” and she’s been using it since we were kids. I remember putting two and two together with Mia when I was about fourteen and shrieking for half an hour at the thought of what my parents were actually doing when Mom talked about needing “snuggle time” with Dad.
“Er …” Brody tries, his voice scratchy.
“It’s because of the press,” I say quickly. “We don’t want them camped outside the house. If we stay at the hotel, it’s easier for everyone.”
And we’ll have separate beds…
“Oh,” Mom says, her shoulders drooping like she’s a deflating floatie. Then she straightens and forces a bright smile. “Are you heading to check in now?”
I nod.
She glances between the house and the car. “Why don’t I come with you? Show you the way.”
“It’s okay, Mom. We won’t be long, and we know where it is.”
Dad takes Mom’s hand, and she reluctantly releases Brody’s arm, like she doesn’t really trust us to return.
I give her a hug and whisper in her ear, “We’ll be home within the hour. I promise.”
As Brody drives slowly away from the curb, the silence is deafening. It’s only been a couple of minutes back in Hideaway, and I’m worried it’s already too much for him.
It only takes a few minutes to get to the hotel, but the parking lot is almost full. God knows how Marv managed to get us adjoining rooms so close to Christmas, and rooms for him, his assistant, and whoever else he’s going to spring on us.
Maybe he planned this months ago…
Inside the hotel, a huge artificial Christmas tree fills one corner of the reception area, andChestnuts Roasting on an Open Fireplays softly in the background.
Between us and the front desk is a couple in their thirties, the man arguing with the receptionist as his wife jiggles a fretful toddler on her hip and tries to soothe two smaller children who are tugging on her coat for attention.
“But that can’t be the case!” the man says. “I booked the rooms months ago.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find any record of that,” the young receptionist replies. Her cheeks are red and a film of sweat glistens across her forehead.
He taps on his phone, then shows her the screen. “Look, there’s the booking confirmation for two adjoining rooms.”
