How’re you doing? I heard great horned owls hooting tonight and saw a bison. I’m in Wyoming. Just as cold as North Dakota, but more animals.
No answer. She was probably at a friend’s. He hoped so.
He needed to move, but he was stuck here. There wasn’t even a gym. What kind of hotel didn’t even have a treadmill and a universal machine? Failing that, he needed a drink, but since thinking that you needed a drink was the first step to really needing a drink, he was going to have something else instead.
Maybe even hot cider.
Dyma asked, “Where are you going?”
Jennifer paused on her way out the door. “Just down to the lobby to make a phone call. I might hang out down there and read my book, too.”
Dyma set down her calculator. She’d been sitting on the bed with a notebook in her lap doing calculus equations, or whatever you called calculus problems. “Impossible,” was what Jennifer would have called them. She had to admit, in totally honest moments, that she wouldn’t have been Dyma even if she’d been in Dyma’s position, meaning, “a non-mother.” Her Mary Tyler Moore job would’ve been in something involving more talking and not nearly as many numbers, that was for sure, and it definitely wouldn’t have involved Bernoulli’s stupid equation, which she still didn’t really get. Which meant it would also have paid just about nothing, because that tended to happen when you didn’t understand calculus. Why was that?
Dyma said, “Are you going back to meet him?”
“What? No. Of course not.” She was calling her grandpa, if only because she needed to touch base with real life. And maybe because the person she wanted to call most of all couldn’t pick up anymore.
“Oh, yeah?” Dyma scrutinized her some more, then said, “Except that you probably are, because if you were meeting him, that would be the exact wrong outfit to do it in, and even you would know that.”
Jennifer would have loved to say something snarky back, but since Dyma was right, she couldn’t think what it would be. She’d washed off her makeup and changed into yoga pants and moccasin slippers when she’d thought she was going for “reading on the bed,” and she couldn’t be bothered changing now. Yeah, she was pretty sure nobody was going to be hitting on her.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she finally said anyway. “Maybe Ski Shop Guy’s down there right now. He seemed pretty desperate.”
Dyma sighed. “Mom …”
“Yep,” Jennifer said. “See you in a while.”
She was still buzzing, was what it was. She’d tried to do the “sitting on the bed and reading a book” thing, but she couldn’t sit and couldn’t sleep. She headed to the lobby, then changed her mind and went back to the bar.
In her yoga pants. And her moccasins. Working out Blake’s two weeks’ notice. But she had as much right to be here as anyone else. Besides, the best-looking guy she’d seen in a long time—besides Blake, who didn’t count—had bought her dinner tonight and smiled and flirted. She was sure he’d flirted. Hadn’t he? He’d held her hand.
Of course, he’d held her hand when he was trying to make her feel better about being terrified of large animals and other methods by which to die in the wilderness, which was possibly not the same thing, but never mind. She’d just make sure, when they had breakfast with the guys and did that skiing tomorrow, that she made it clear by her manner that she was expecting absolutely nothing. That she wanted nothing, which should be easy, because it was the truth. She also couldn’t ski, which she was fairly sure meant that somebody would have to hang back and wait for her, presumably attempting not to look impatient about it. That person wouldn’t be Dyma, because Dyma’d barely managed not to look impatient about it today. She sure wasn’t going to do it tomorrow, when she was skiing with the bison shifter. Also, Jennifer suspected she was older than Kris, and a guy like that was …
Sitting at a table in the bar with a blonde and a brunette, was what. Both of whom were thin, and neither of whom was in any possible way wearing yoga pants.
OK. That was back to Plan A, then. Calling her grandpa.
12
Harlan Lies
Harlan’s plan wasn’t working out too well.
He was in a bad mood. Normally, he still had to be charming even when he was in a bad mood. Kinda went with the territory, at least to him. He was a fortunate guy with a fortunate life, the fans filled the seats and paid the rent, and he didn’t need to feel like a dick.
Which was why he still had to be semi-charming, even though he wasn’t being himself. To tell himself he wasn’t a dick. Because although he didn’t care about his dad’s party at the dealership, everybody was going to show up on Sunday to tailgate on the frozen prairie and then watch the Super Bowl in his high-school gym, and he wasn’t going to be there. He’d said he would, they’d be setting up folding chairs and big screens tomorrow, he was backing out, and he did owe them. He might not owe his dad, but he owed them.
The brunette was saying, “I swear, you look exactly like Harlan Kristiansen. Are you sure you’re not just messing with us?” She did some hair-flicking for good measure. She had very nice hair.
“Really?” he said. “I’ve gotten Chris Hemsworth before, but I’ve got to be honest here, this Harlan guy feels like a big ol’ step down. I never heard of him, and it’s kind of a redneck name anyway, isn’t it?”
“You do look like Chris,” the blonde, whose name was Mandy, assured him. “But you don’t have the accent.”
The brunette—Melissa—said, “Excuse me? Actor? He could have a different accent. But he’s not any Hemsworth.” She was clearly sad about it. Chris Hemsworth was smart enough not to trap himself into an isolated lodge in the middle of a howling storm, though, and Harlan was willing to bet every other Hemsworth was, too.
“Nope,” he said. “I just sell farm equipment, sorry.” He wasn’t going to ask what they did. Being a non-dick was one thing. Making conversation was another. He was going to sit here, put out farm-equipment, boring-guy vibes, and if that didn’t work, pull out his phone and start actively ignoring them.
Which was when he saw Jennifer. She’d changed clothes and was holding a big book, but it was definitely Jennifer.
He suddenly realized that all she needed was blue eyes, a clap of the hands, and a “Time to get on the rug for Circle Time!” and she could’ve been his kindergarten teacher.
Ms. Flowers had been his first crush. He’d made her a huge Valentine over which he’d labored for about an hour, involving doilies and construction paper and glitter and glued-on candy hearts and possibly the words, “I love you.” At the end-of-year assembly, as his classmates never tired of reminding him, when it was his turn to talk, he’d burst out with, “My favorite part of Kindergarten is Ms. Flowers, because her name is a flower, and she smells like a flower, and she’s as beautiful as a flower.” It had brought down the house, apparently.
He’d had good taste, though. Ms. Flowers had been hot.
He was thinking it, but he was also rising from the table, grabbing his drink, and telling the women, “Excuse me, ladies. My girlfriend’s here.”