Page 11 of No Room in the Inn

I don’t really want to think about what he can see. I clear my throat. “So if you could just—” I break off as I try to maneuver my other arm out of the sleeve so I can get to my earring; I can’t untangle it with one hand. “If you could just go—”

“Do you need help?” the voice says. It’s not any closer than it was when he first showed up, which means he’s at least respecting my space, even if he is still standing there.

“No,” I say, maybe a little bit snippier than necessary. But come on—give a girl some privacy so she can be mortified in peace. “Thank you,” I add, trying to sound politer. “I have it.”

I don’t have it. Not even a little bit. But his stranger doesn’t need to know that.

“Okay,” the man says. He doesn’t sound convinced, and I don’t blame him; I clearly am making no progress here. But all he says is “I’ll just…go.”

I hear the dressing room door close again, and I sag with relief. Taking a deep breath, I restart my wiggling efforts with renewed vigor. The problem is that it’s hard to get my arm out of the sleeve without pulling at the dress too much and ripping a hole in my poor ear. I could take the earring off and leave it attached to the dress, but that requires two hands.

I get my one free arm up to where my earring is stuck to the dress, pulling gently at the snag. Then I pull less gently. My reward is another unpleasant pinch to my ear, and I may or may not swear.

A few seconds later, there’s a knock at the door, followed by a muffled voice. “Look, are you sure I can’t help? I kind of need this room, and it doesn’t sound like this whole dress situation is working out for you.”

“Good to know the only reason you want to help is that you need the room,” I say loudly. “Go find a bathroom!”

“No need to be rude,” the voice says. And does he sound…amused?

I give a little huff of irritation. “Do you think this is funny?”

“I mean, kind of,” comes the muffled response. “How did you get stuck in a dress?”

“I’m not stuck,” I say. “My earring just snagged.”

There’s a second of silence before the voice says, “I’m coming in.”

I’m surprised it’s taken him this long, to be honest. He seems nosy. I hear the door open and then close.

“Okay, look, I need to use this room. If you don’t want my help, fine, but I still need to get in here.”

“I’m half naked!” I say, and I would probably throw my hands up in exasperation if I weren’t in Grinch-dress jail.

“So am I,” the man says. “So we’re even.”

I splutter unflatteringly at that. Is he walking around half naked? Who does that?

“But go into the stall if you’re so concerned.” He’s quiet for a second, and I swear I canhearhim smirking when he continues, “If you can find the stall, that is.”

That’s it. I’m done. “Fine!” I say, stomping my foot. “Fine. You can help me.”

“I’m not sure you deserve my help if you’re going to ask like that.”

The nerve. I am going to clobber this guy over the head with my stiletto. But I just take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Can you please help me?” I say through clenched teeth.

“Since you’re asking so nicely,” he says, and even though I’ve never met this man before I can tell he’s highly amused. “What’s going on in there?”

His voice is closer now, and I catch the faintest hint of cologne—subtle and woodsy and completely different from Chauncey’s scent, which was something like shaving cream on steroids.

“My right earring is caught in the fabric,” I admit. “And I can’t get my right arm out of the sleeve without pulling my ear. The dress is too tight.”

“Hmm,” the voice says, sounding thoughtful. “All right, let’s get your arm out of the sleeve first. Will you be able to unsnag the earring that way?”

“At very least I’ll be able to take it off,” I say.

“That works,” he says. I feel a gentle pull at my right sleeve. When the gentle pull doesn’t work, it becomes a more insistent pull. I do my best to bring my arm toward me, and after a few seconds of this tug of war, my arm is released.

“Did we get it?” the voice says from right in front of me.

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