Well, no. Owen at some fancy Eastern boarding school? Andover Academy, maybe? Playing lacrosse? The thought of Owen lumbering down the field with a lacrosse stick in his oversized mitt of a hand made her laugh. Scratch that one.
If Kris’s last name was “Deere,” though, she definitely got it. All of it, including the alcoholic, judgmental father. A wealthy, dysfunctional family? That fit. Whatever the answer, though, it wasn’t actually her business, and it was definitely nothing for her to get excited about. Everything was still exactly the same as before. They’d go to North Dakota for the day, she’d help him all she could, and then she and Dyma would go home feeling like they’d had an adventure. And, just maybe, she’d feel empowered.
Instead of like she’d lost something else. Like, maybe … a possibility.
No. She wasn’t going to think that. She was going to look forward. If you looked behind you, you couldn’t see your path. Which sounded like the Tao but wasn’t. It was hers. She was hanging onto it.
Dyma said, “Mom. We need to get our bags.”
“Nope,” Kris said. “The driver’ll bring them.” He told Chauffeur-Cap Guy, “Thanks, man,” and shook his hand, and if Jennifer hadn’t been watching pretty closely, she’d have missed the bill he slipped in there. Which made her like him even more. For tipping, and for being discreet about it.
Dignity, and letting other people keep it. It was a thing.
The pilot was standing by the folded-down steps of the jet, and Kris paused to shake his hand, too, then said something to him and got an answer. He turned back and told Dyma, “If you want to go on up into the cockpit, Tom here’ll give you a tour around the instruments and answer all your questions.”
Dyma stood stock-still, for once without a smart answer. “You’re kidding.”
“You’ll have to head on back to the passenger compartment for the flight,” the pilot said, “but you’re welcome to sit and watch my pre-flight checks.”
“Yes,” she said, and hopped right up after him with so much bounce in her step, Jennifer had to smile.
“That was nice of you,” she told Kris. “You’ve made her day.”
Kris headed up the steps after them, stopped at the top, and said, “Ah. Coffee. Dyma will be happy about that, though I think Miss Dyma might be high on life. Some snacks here, too. Help yourself.”
A carafe of coffee, warm croissants wrapped in white linen, and a bowl of fruit, to be exact. She let Kris take her coat and hang it up, then grabbed a coffee, went on back, and sat in an extremely comfortable cream leather seat, while Kris set his own cup down on the table between them and took the seat opposite. He said, “I was expecting this to go over bigger, I’ve got to admit. I mean, you don’t have to fall on my neck weeping tears of gratitude for a flight that’ll take about an hour and a half, but you could be a little awed by my status in life.”
She had to laugh, and he grinned and said, “Yep. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a surprising woman.”
Owen buckled himself in across from them and said, “Not going exactly like you thought so far, is it, bro? Maybe you’re actually not all that.”
“So tell me,” Jennifer asked. “After all this buildup, I’m hoping for something really exciting, but the possibilities are limited. If you don’t actually sell farm equipment—what is it? You’re a drug dealer, or just a very good pharmaceutical sales rep? Probably not. You’re flashy, but drug dealers probably don’t cross-country ski, especially not in places that don’t even have a hot tub. The sales rep idea is still possible, though, if you’re a majorly reckless spender who may be fudging his expense accounts. You’re a tech titan, or you and Owen are both tech titans? I just can’t see it. You’re too physical, and you never look at your phone. You’re a movie star, and Owen’s your bodyguard? That would work, considering how good-looking you are, except that nobody’s recognized you so far, and neither do I, so if you’re an actor, I’m guessing private-jet money would fall into the category of ‘extravagant spending.’ Or—final guess here—you’re the heir to a farm-equipment fortune. That’s most likely, because people generally sprinkle some truth in their stories. Less exciting, but also less chance I’ll be arrested at the end of this trip.”
“Shot down again,” Owen said. “I’m enjoying this.”
“Dude,” Kris said, “she doesn’t recognize you, either.”
“Nobody recognizes me,” Owen said. “I’m not the one with the pretty face. And let’s face it, people are mostly looking at my butt. It’s not that special.”
Jennifer looked between the two of them. The prickles of awareness were starting to grow. If she hadn’t been wearing long sleeves, she’d have seen goosebumps. She said, “You’re joking.”
“Not so far,” Kris said. “But what?”
“You’re NFL players,” she said, and started to laugh. “I cannot believe my life. I cannot … I can’t believe my life.”
Harlan said, “What?” Dyma came back from the cockpit, slid into the seat across from Owen, and said, “What?” Owen was the only one who wasn’t saying anything. He just sat there looking amused, exactly like he had when his bull had put Harlan on his ass.
Harlan told him, “You could be enjoying this less,” and Owen said, “Yeah, I don’t think I could.” And Dyma said, “What?” again.
Harlan was starting to feel a little annoyed. He realized now that he’d waited to tell Jennifer who he was for a couple of reasons. First, that he’d been afraid she’d look at him differently, and second, that he’d … wanted her to look at him differently?
Could he be that much of an asshole?
Well, yeah. Probably.
Jennifer told Dyma, “They’re NFL players,” and the jet’s engines started up like the dramatic punctuation. If this had been a movie, there’d have been music.
“You’re kidding,” Dyma said.
“See,” Harlan informed Jennifer, “that’s the response we were going for.”
She flapped a hand at him, still apparently possessed of the giggles. “Sorry.”
Her golden eyes were gleaming with some laughter-induced tears, her wide mouth was turned up in absolute merriment, and even her freckles seemed to stand out more against her pale skin. She looked like the best time there ever was, and he leaned across the table, took her head in his hand, kissed her mouth, got the same sweet shock as he had when he’d done it last night, and said, “You know what? I’ll take that reaction.” Grinning like a fool.
She said, “See? I told you that you were a good person.” And smiled with the kind of heart-melting sweetness that just … well, melted his heart. Which was probably a bad sign. Or a good one.
He was so confused.
“OK,” Dyma said. “Explain.”
“My name’s not Kris,” Harlan said. “It’s Harlan Kristiansen. I’m a wide receiver for the Portland Devils.”
“And you’re still not the bodyguard,” Dyma told Owen.