Page 8 of Stuffing My Obsession
There’s a beat of silence. “There’s a motel up ahead,” he says quietly. “They should have food.”
I peek at him through my fingers. “A motel?”
He nods once. “We’ll stop. Eat. Rest. Keep going in the morning.”
The way he says it leaves no room for argument, and honestly, I don’t have one. My body sags with relief at the thought of warm food and a bed.
“Okay,” I whisper, settling back against the seat. My chest feels strangely lighter, like even in my most awkward, humiliating moment, he doesn’t judge me.
If anything…I feel safe.
Chapter Four
Myles
The motel sits on the side of the highway, a squat, tired building with chipped paint and a buzzing neon sign that flickers betweenVacancyand a half-dead glow. The lot’s cracked asphalt is littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts, and every window has a set of curtains drawn tight, yellow light leaking around the edges.
Not exactly five-star accommodations.
I kill the engine and climb out, scanning the lot out of habit. Two trucks. A rusted-out sedan. Shadows moving behind drawn curtains. Nothing that feels like a threat, but I stay alert anyway.
Paris climbs out from her side of the truck, tugging her hoodie closer around her like a protective shield. Her eyes dart over the place like she’s trying to convince herself it’s fine. She looks out of place here—soft, clean, too damn good for this dump.
“Come on,” I mutter, leading the way.
Inside, the office smells like stale coffee and damp carpet. The guy behind the counter is balding, wearing a stretched-out undershirt, his chair creaking as he leans back with some racymagazine. He doesn’t bother looking up until we step up to the counter. His gaze drifts over Paris, slow and sticky. Then back to me.
“Well now,” he drawls with a suggestive smirk. “Need a room?”
“Two,” I say flatly.
His smirk grows. “Ain’t got two. Just one left.”
My jaw tightens. I glance at Paris. “We can try somewhere else.”
The guy barks out a laugh. “Good luck. Next motel’s forty miles out, and not much in between.”
Paris shakes her head quickly, cheeks pink but steady. “It’s fine. One room is fine.”
Her voice is light, but I catch the way her hands twist the strap of her bag. She’s embarrassed. Cute as hell, but embarrassed.
The man quotes the price, and before Paris can dig into her purse, I’m sliding my card across the counter.
“Oh, I can pay—” she starts, but I cut her off with a look.
“I’ve got it.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
The clerk swipes the card, still smirking like he knows something. He slides the key across the counter, and I take it, ignoring him completely.
“Come on,” I murmur to Paris, holding the door open for her.
She hurries past me, her face burning red, and I can’t stop the heat curling in my gut at the sight. The poor girl’s mortified, but all I can think about is how goddamn adorable she looks when she blushes.
Spending the night in one room just makes things much more complicated.
The room is just as I expected—nothing special. I look around, taking in everything in one swoop. Brown carpet with stains that’ll never come out, bed with a floral comforter that’s seen better decades, and a small couch shoved against the wall. A single lamp flickers weak light across the space.
I set my bag down and nod toward the couch. “I’ll take that.”
