He grins. “You don’t name cars in America?”
“Are you saying French people name their cars? Because that is not something I ever expected.”
We both laugh, and then he opens his door. “Stay there. I’ll get your door,” he says, coming around and opening my door.
We walk inside the dingy fast-food restaurant together. I relax completely against the plastic seats as Benedict walks up to order our food. This seems so completelynormal.Like we’ve been doing this for years. Smiling, I watch him stroll to our table, appreciating the way his faded jeans cling to his thigh muscles just so. Appreciating the fact that he always makes me feel better after spending time with him. Maybe that’s why I’ve been enjoying my time with him so much lately—because he makes me feel good.
Like I’m something to be admired.
Like I makehislife better.
“Why are these so popular?” He asks, choosing to sit next to me instead of across from me. He gestures to the two McFlurry’s.
“You’ve never had one?” I probe, stunned.
He shakes his head and takes a quick bite of the ice cream swirled with peanut butter cups. “Fuck, thatisgood.”
“You’re truly living your best life, Benedict.”
He laughs, and I watch as his eyes crinkle. When he looks at me, my stomach tightens—like I’m going down a rollercoaster drop.
“You’re right. I am.”
I catch the double meaning, and when he looks away, I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to grin like a maniac.
We leave the fast-food chain a few minutes later, eager to get on the road. Benedict plays some dark, moody music from his phone that perfectly matches the weather.
The rain pelts the car harder now as we drive north, up the M6 to Scotland. Benedict slows, and the cars ahead of us pull off the road. It’s almost completely dark now, and though it’s a little after four in the afternoon, it seems later. The windshield wipers are going a thousand miles a minute, and Benedict pulls off the road at the next stop—somewhere in the Lake District. He veers us onto the A66, a smaller highway, and then pulls off at the first exit. Once we’ve safely parked next to the edge of a forest, he flips BBC on and listens as the weather report drawls on.
“It’s not letting up until tomorrow,” he sighs, looking around. He checks the directions app on his car. “We still have at least two and a half hours to go.”
I shrug. “So maybe we wait it out?”
The silence of earlier has been replaced by an incessant pounding, and all of the sudden, it turns to hail—large hail, by the sound of it.
He pinches the screen of his phone. “Looks like they’re closing the M6 a few miles north. There’s a detour, but it adds…” he squints. “Another couple of hours.”
I look out into the darkness. “We could find a place to rest until the rain lets up?” I suggest. “We’re two-thirds of the way there, so we could leave tomorrow morning and still have plenty of time to get settled at the hotel before…” I trail off.
He looks at the radio sternly, as if the broadcaster is to blame. “Yeah, we could do that.” Grabbing his phone, he murmurs to himself. “I see a place about thirty minutes away. That’s the closest thing to us with availability.”
“That works for me.” I smile, trying to assuage the tension. “I’m flexible. Whatever you think is best.” Just as I say that, the broadcaster pauses.
“We’re getting reports that M6 is closed for flooding. If you can, take shelter, or find a diversion if you’re heading up or down the continent.”
I look over at Benedict with wide eyes. “Let’s go before they book up.”
He smirks, turning the engine on and handing me the phone. I glance at the directions.
“Armathwaite Hall? Sounds fancy,” I murmur, telling him to go east on the A66. “And expensive,” I add, my eyes bugging out at the price. The Balmoral was similarly priced, so I’m not surprised.
He chuckles. “If we’re going to find shelter, I want to be comfortable.”
I hum in response, trying not to roll my eyes.
Welcome to Armathwaite Hall
Evelyn Snow
