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We grab our bags and head inside, the bell above the door jingling as we enter. The lobby is cozy, with worn leather couches and a crackling fireplace, like we're in someone's living room.
At the front desk of the modest roadside motel, a middle-aged man looks up, eyes widening in recognition.
“Here we go,” I mumble, adjusting my hat awkwardly.
“Just act normal,” Jett says under his breath, flashing a smile that could charm the socks off a nun.
“Normal? What's that?”
I brace myself for the usual fawning that comes with Jett's celebrity status, but to my surprise, the man simply nods in greeting.
“Welcome back,” the clerk says, voice warm with familiarity. “It’s good to see you.”
I raise an eyebrow, wondering what brings a world-famous rockstar back to this unassuming little hotel.
Jett returns the nod with an easy smile. “Hey, Pete. Thanks for fitting us in at the last minute.”
“Got lucky with a cancelation right before you called,” Pete says, printing out a form for Jett. “Otherwise, I wouldn't have had any vacancies left tonight.”
So that's where he went at the gas station-called ahead to book us a room here, picking someplace budget-friendly. I steal a glance at Jett, my heart swelling.
He tips his head slightly, that subtle gesture dismissing any need for thanks like it's no big deal. But it is to me. A lump forms in my throat at his thoughtfulness, making sure I'm comfortable without making a fuss over it.
“Thanks,” he tells Pete, taking the room keys. “I owe you one.”
The motel owner waves it off. “No need to thank me, I'll always be grateful you hired my kid as your roadie.”
Jett flashes a mischievous grin. “If you ever want to get one over on the kid, just remind him about those tequila shots he downed backstage last year. He'll know exactly what you're talking about.”
Pete lets out a hearty chuckle as he hands Jett the room keys. “Sounds like a story that will haunt him for years.”
Jett pauses when examining the keycard. “Isn't there another key for me?”
The owner furrows his brow, glancing between us uncertainly. “Didn't Dolores mention it's a twin room?”
“Oops, my bad,” Jett says with a light-hearted laugh. “I must've misunderstood. Twice the fun, right, Scar?”
Fun? More like torture.
“Ah, uh, no problem. It’s fine.” I fake-smile through gritted teeth. “There are two beds, right?”
“Of course, of course,” Pete rattles off as he hands me a pamphlet. “Some information about the local attractions.”
“Thanks,” Jett says smoothly. “We'll let you know if we need anything.”
As we walk toward the elevator, the plush carpet muffles our steps. Jett leans closer and whispers, “Sorry about that mix-up. It wasn't on purpose, I assure you.”
I wave a hand to stop him mid-apology. “It's okay, I believe you.”
“Great. I mean, good to know you trust me.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as Jett's lopsided grin sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I glance around, desperate for a distraction. A sign catches my eye. “Which way to our room?”
An older woman and a young boy, maybe ten years old, approach.
“Excuse me, Mr. Silver,” the woman says hesitantly. “Could we trouble you for an autograph? My grandson here is a huge fan.”
“Of course,” Jett replies warmly, crouching down to the kid's level. The boy shoves a napkin forward eagerly. “When I grow up, I wanna be a singer like you!”
