“Holy shit. A mystery man,” she breathes, eyebrows so raised in surprise they practically disappear in her hairline. “Who do you think it was?”
“I have no clue. Someone I know in real life, I think, since he seemed to be surprised when I called him the wrong name. He must have thought I knew who I was texting. I mean,” I shrug, feeling awful for the poor guy, whoever he is, “why wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah . . .” my friend says, trying to piece together my disjointed thoughts.
“So I don’t know who it is. But,” my hands are suddenly shaking and I don’t know if it’s from worry or excitement, “I know how to find out.”
How?” Tansy breathes.
“By showing up at the Interlake Inn at sixty-thirty tonight for a date with my mystery sexter,” I say grimly. I force myself not to consider the fact that, given that I called him the wrong name, my mystery suitor might not show.
I can’t say that I’d blame him.
But I have to try. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t. Not after the connection that we seem to share.
“Damn,” Tansy says, shaking her head, “this is crazy. But no matter what happens, it’s going to be great material for your books.”
I laugh. “That’s for damn sure.”
So much is unknown.
There’s no way to predict how my date at the Interlake tonight will go.
If my guy even shows that is.
But all of a sudden I’m floating to the photo shop with a lightness in my gait that wasn’t there before.
Bethany
I’d felt calm all day. Sure, the hours at the photo shop were interminable. But aside from a few twinges of nerves, I felt fine.
Cool.
Collected.
Placid, even, if I’m allowed a lame joke about the lakeside location of this evening’s date. After the confusion of the last few days, I certainly feel owed certain allowances.
When I drive home, Tansy tailing me to my place so she can help me get ready, I find that I’m more nervous.
Whispery butterfly wings tickle the insides of my belly. My hands shake, but only a little, when I’m applying my eyeliner.
The butterfly wings ease somewhat when Tansy and I take in my done-up reflection in the long mirror propped in a corner of my bedroom.
I’m wearing a pretty risqué — for me, anyway — strapless white dress that barely falls to my mid-thigh. Black heels and strings of black beaded necklaces finish off the outfit, along with a black faux fur shrug in case my shoulders get cold. My blonde hair is swept up in a simple but chic chignon.
I feel pretty.
Beautiful, even.
Not that I normally think poorly of my appearance. More than I don’t usually think much about it at all. My fashion staples are foundation, a quick brush of mascara, and a hair tie as a permanent fixture on my wrist for quickly putting my hair up in a floppy bun.
I work in an elf costume for crying out loud. My appearance is not exactly my number one priority.
But tonight, having taken the time to apply the fancy makeup I never get to use and wear a formal outfit that’s been collecting dust in my closet, I feel magical.
Like anything could happen.
I wonder who my mystery man will turn out to be
If he shows up.
I shiver in and the butterflies flap more frantically.
Tansy was right. No matter how tonight goes down, it’s sure to inspire at least one of my stories.
Normally my idea of a fun night is me on the couch, a quilt tucked around me, a generous glass of red wine within arm’s reach, and my fingers flying over my laptop’s keyboard. There’s not much in this world that I enjoy more than stitching love stories together word by word.
Tonight, though, I want to live one of my love stories.
I hope it has a happy ending.
Tansy must sense the ebb and flow of my tension because she puts her arms around me and squeezes. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she murmurs, “You’re lovely. And tonight will go perfectly.”
I turn to look at my friend without the aid of the mirror. “How do you know?”
She shrugs. “A hunch. Besides,” she offers a rare sass-free smile, “you’re a hell of a catch. Any idiot would know that.”
“Sexton didn’t,” I point out.
Tansy waves me off. “He’s sub-idiot level. Irredeemable really.”
“And my mystery man?”
She cocks her head at me. “Did you really mean everything you said about how it feels like you’re meant to be together? That he gets you?”
I nod fervently.
“Then he’s way above idiot level. Way above. And it’s going to go great.”
“If he shows,” I remind her — and myself.
“He’d be a fool not to. And you don’t need a fool in your life, so good riddance if that’s how things go.” She nudges her shoulder against mine. “But I really don’t think it will.”
I shove my doubts aside and force myself to believe Tansy’s words.
I have to, to get myself out the door and into my car.
On the drive to the Inn, I blast all the Taylor Swift, Britney Spears, and Kelly Clarkson my phone possesses on repeat. Loud, so it drowns out the fear.
Because those butterflies? Yeah, they’re throwing a rave now.
In what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, I’m pulling into the parking lot of the Interlake Inn. When I step out into the night, I pause and take deep draughts of the cold, damp air.
This is it. The moment between now and whatever comes after.
When I get back into my car, it’ll be with an impeccable man in my life, or it’ll be with my hopes dashed.
But I’ll also be armed with the knowledge that I tried. I found a man worth taking a risk for and, mystery or not, I did just that.
That’s something to be proud of.
I pull a scrap of paper out of my tiny handbag and scribble that down: taking risks for love — something to be proud of. You know, for later. When I’m writing.
Then I put all thoughts of fictional love stories out of my mind and focus on the one that’s unfurling before me here and now.
I hurry into the Inn. My breath catches when I step into its warm, pine-scented interior.
The place is infused with golden light, and fresh evergreen vines twined with twinkle lights hang from every rafter. Brocade designs paper the walls. It’s a lot. But in the historic Victorian mansion, what would be too much anywhere else is perfection.
Given my day job, I don’t get easily excited about the holiday season. Jolly carols and bedecked trees just don’t do it for me like they used to.
Here, though? I’m swooning afresh with each step I take as I absorb how cozy and quaint this beautiful place is.
Then I get to the hostess desk and find myself lost for words.
Am I here on a reservation? Do I just take any table? I have no idea, and I haven’t heard from my mystery man.
In hindsight, I wonder if I should have texted him, telling him I’d be here tonight. At the time it felt so much more romantic not to though, to leave it to chance.
Now it feels like a fucking rookie move. I’d be kicking myself for it if these high-heeled shoes weren’t so damned precarious.
“Urg, Bethany Nave,” I blurt at the hostess, “party of—“