“Ms.,” I corrected again.
“Whatever,” he said curtly. “There was a mistake. I’m here.”
It hadn’t happened in awhile but I was thinking I was getting angry. Then again, I’d just travelled for seventeen plus hours; was in a different country; in a different time zone; it was late, dark, snow was falling, the roads were treacherous; I had hundreds of dollars worth of groceries in my car, some of which would go bad if not refrigerated and hotels didn’t have refrigerators, at least not big refrigerators; I was tired and I had a head cold coming on, so I could be forgiven for getting angry.
“Well, so am I,” I returned.
“Yeah, you are, but it’s my house.”
“What?”
“I own it.”
I shook my head and it was those short, confused shakes again.
“But, it’s a rental.”
“It is when I’m not here. It isn’t when I’m home.”
What was happening finally dawned on me fully.
“So, what you’re saying is, my confirmed booking is really an unconfirmed booking and you’re cancelling at what is the absolute definition of the very last minute?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m speakin’ English, we do share a common language. I’m understandin’ you.”
I was confused again. “What?”
“You’re English.”
“I’m American.”
His brows snapped together and it made him look a little scary mainly because his face grew dark at the same time. “You don’t sound American to me.”
“Well, I am.”
“Whatever,” he muttered then swept an arm toward the open door. “You’ll get a refund first thing Monday morning.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“This is… I don’t… you can’t –”
“Listen, Ms. Sheridan, it’s late. The longer you stand there talkin’, the longer it’ll take you to get to the hotel.”
I looked out at the snow again then back at him.
“It’s snowing,” I informed him of the obvious.
“This is why I’m tellin’ you, you best get on the road.”
I stared at him for a second that turned into about ten of them.
Then I whispered, “I can’t believe this.”