The clerk’s fake smile doesn’t falter, but it’s still fake. I lean a little closer to the desk, gripping the edge. “You don’t understand. I can’t just sleep in my car. It’s freezing out there.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” His voice is syrupy, the kind that doesn’t actually mean sorry. “We’re fully booked. This storm caught a lot of people off guard.”
“Right, including me.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, and I feel bad for it instantly, but I’m exhausted, soaked, and the thought of sitting in my car all night makes my stomach twist. “There has to be something. A closet. A cot in the basement. I’ll take anything.”
The guy glances over my shoulder, probably hoping someone else will step up and distract me. No luck for him. The lobby is practically empty except for a guy passed out on one of the couches. The clerk’s fingers drum on the desk. “I’ve already told you—”
“Ellie?”
I freeze, grip tightening on the desk. That’s not possible. Not here. Slowly, I turn.
And there he is. Jack Baker. Ten years, and he’s still unmistakably Jack—sharp jawline, the same easy grin, even under the shadow of a soaked baseball cap. But what stops me, what shifts everything, is the sleek black wheelchair he’s sitting in. His hands rest on the push rims, his posture casual like he’s been here all along.
“Jack?” My voice wavers for half a second before I clamp it down. My brain is working overtime, trying to connect the dots. Last I knew, he was climbing mountains out west. Now he’s here, wheels glinting in the fluorescent light, grinning at me like we bumped into each other at the grocery store.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, rolling a little closer. The grin doesn’t falter. “Ellie Thompson, of all people. Small world, huh?”
