Page 6 of Stuck with Me

Fine. Send more pics later. I’m almost home. Wish me luck.

ME

Good luck, Ams.

It’s a long walk to the hotel but driving wasn’t an option. I didn’t bother with renting a car at the airport. Paying an Uber from Denver felt like the safest route. I’ve never driven on icy roads. We’ve only had snow twice on the ranch in Texas since I’ve been alive.

When the wooden sign for the hotel finally comes into my line of sight, my shoulders sag in relief. By now nearly the entire town is shut down and the sun has set behind the mountains causing all the streetlamps to light up. There’s a bar on the corner that’s still open, their windows glowing. The only building lit up past the hotel is a church with a tall steeple and people filing inside.

I shake my head. Not a chance in hell.

While my mother would normally approve of me attending a Christmas Eve service, the sign out front missing the word BAPTIST on it gives me the excuse to skip this year. Mother would have a fit if I stepped foot in a Lutheran church.

Stamping the snow from my boots on the rug outside of the hotel, I turn the knob and enter the cozy lobby with a fireplace lit in the corner. It’s tempting to stop there and warm up but once I’m in my room and buried beneath the covers, my frozen toes will hopefully be good as new.

But as soon as I step into my room, I’m bombarded with frigid air. “Holy hell.” I breathe heat from my lungs into my cupped hands as I stride over to the thermostat. “Sixty-two?” In Texas, I’m barely used to that temperature outside never mind inside. I fiddle with the lever, cranking it up but the heater doesn’t roar to life.

“Fuck,” I groan out loud and instead of calling down to the front desk, I hightail it out of my room and down to the lobby where that cozy fireplace is calling me.

An older man behind the desk brightens when he sees me. “Good evening, sir, how can I help you?”

“Good evening,” I grumble, tipping my cowboy hat in greeting. “The heater seems to be broken in my room. Mind sending someone up there to take a look at it?”

“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll personally see to it myself. Just tell me your name and your room number.” He glances down at the computer in front of him, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

I stall for a moment, rubbing at the back of my neck. I don’t actually know how much time my grandfather spent in this town and who knew him. “Uhh, Nico Moretti. Room 106.”

As the older man’s gaze lifts, his brows do as well. “Moretti. You’re Italian?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lots of Italians in this town. Moretti sounds familiar.”

“I’m sure there’s no relation.”

“What did you say you’re doing in Maple Ridge?”

“I didn’t,” I state firmly.

His shifty eyes return to the computer. “Okay, Mr. Moretti, give me about thirty minutes to an hour and I should have the heat up and running in your room again. The lever gets a little stuck sometimes. Just needs a little Christmas magic.” He winks.

“What am I supposed to do for an hour?”

“You could warm up by the fire? Or, the Christmas Eve service should be starting soon at Maple Lutheran. Our restaurant has closed early for the holiday, but there’s always The Pines Bar and Grill, if that’s your sort of thing.”

I weigh my options. A bar where I can not only get something to drink but dinner too? My decision is simple.

“I’ll be back in one hour,” I grumble and zip my jacket up once more before stepping out into the frigid night air.

The Pines is only one block down. The walk is quick, and the heat welcomes me as soon as I enter. The scent of grease has never smelled so good. Amid the confrontation with Rosalie earlier, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until this moment.

It’s busier than I expected. I suppose I’m somewhat small-minded and assumed most people would be at the Christmas Eve service or be home with their families. But looking around the bar, it feels almost like any other day of the year in any other city. My shoulders relax even more so when I spot a familiar beer on tap from a brewery near home.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

“I’ll take a pint of Holiday Cheer please.”

“Solid choice,” he says, filling a glass.

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