There was no television, no radio, no phone. Just Rick, Lana, a bed, and a squirrel.
A single squirrel that was perched on the windowsill wearing a white cotton nightgown, dark hair flowing down its squirrel back in perfect curls as it stared longingly out the window. For some reason, that one bothered Lana most of all. Breaking the time-honored convention of not rearranging hotel decorations, Rick put the squirrel in the top drawer of an antique dresser, the only furniture in the room besides the bed.
Lana gave Rick a breezy laugh to cover the fact that she was sure she could hear something moving in that dresser drawer. She patted the mattress beneath her.
“So…which side do you prefer to sleep?” she asked, although to be honest, it wasn’t going to matter.
Lana was taking whichever side was farthest away from the squirrel.
* * *
She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Are you going to be okay in here?” Rick wasn’t the most observant of men, but despite her cheerfulness, Lana looked a little peaked around the edges. “I can leave you alone or stay—”
A door slammed downstairs, followed by a heavy thump. The kind of thump that involved a large object being dropped on a table. Then the kind of rhythmic, horrific chopping that came with butchering something with large kitchen weaponry. With every chop, she flinched, until the sound was replaced by a loud, high-pitched squealing noise. Midsqueal, it turned into a grinding noise that would haunt Rick to the end of his days.
“What is that?” Lana asked, eyes wide.
“I think they’re making sausage.”
“The house sausage?”
Rick nodded, sitting on the bed next to her.
“That’s it. I’m out.” Grabbing her jacket, Lana shrugged into it and hopped up. “There are plenty of ways to go, and I’m not letting this hotel of horrors be the thing that takes me down.”
She eyed the fireplace, then grabbed a nearby fire poker. Lana hefted it a couple times, took one iffy practice swing, then turned to the door.
“Get behind me, Rick. Let’s do this thing.”
She looked so cute, all ready to fight her way out of the hotel, even though it was clear Lana was completely freaked out. Which was why Rick decided then and there, if he was ever going to get married again (which he wasn’t) or found himself falling in love again (which he shouldn’t), he was going to pick a woman like her.
“While I appreciate the sentiment,” he told her, “I don’t think freezing to death is better than being made into sausage.”
“Oh, it is. Trust me, the only casing I’m going into is the Spanx in my closet.” She turned back to the door. “Freezing is the far superior option.”
“Or—and hear me out on this one—we could put down the poker and play poker instead. I saw a deck of cards in the lobby.”
“Lobby is too generous.” With a sigh, she sat next to him, still holding the fire poker.
Rick straightened because it was hard to pretend to be relaxed when her hip was mere inches from his own.
The door banged open, revealing Carl in all his glory with an armful of towels, and Rick had the absolute wonder of finding himself with Lana jumping three feet in the air like a startled cat, landing on his lap. A frightened Lana didn’t scream, and her hair was in his face so he couldn’t see hers, but Rick had the feeling she had placed herself in between the threat and him for the second time that night.
A warm feeling of amusement filled him. Still, he wanted to show Lana that he didn’t need her protection. Not from Carl anyway. Silas…possibly. The solid weight of her on his lap? Definitely. But not from Carl and his towels.
Rick wrapped his arm tight around her waist, then shifted her over enough so he could see.
“That was unexpected,” he said. “Maybe try knocking next time?”
“These are towels.” Carl stared at them, not blinking.
Yes. Yes, they were.
“Ma said we turn the lights out at nine. I put the other set in the other room.”
“There were dolls,” Rick told him. “We only need this one.”
If Carl cared, he certainly didn’t show it. Instead, he grumbled all the way back to the door, then slammed it shut.
“How did he walk so quiet on the floor out there, but now he’s making so much noise?” Lana asked in a whisper.
“You probably couldn’t hear him because of the sausage grinder.”
Lana shuddered. “Rick, I think we should leave.”
“In the snowstorm?”
“We’re going to be made into sausage. I’d make a terrible sausage. Do you know how much body fat percentage I have? Because sausages are supposed to be twenty-five percent, and I have at least twenty-eight percent. Maybe more. I’m probably closer to thirty, because these things are not pure muscle.”
When she stuffed a thumb into her breast and poked it a few times for emphasis, Rick’s brain tried very hard not to notice.
“How do you know the fat content of sausage?”
“Everyone knows that, Rick. Everyone knows.” Her voice was taking a panicked tone, which would have been more alarming if her thumb had changed places. But nope. Still poking, giving her a somewhat squashy lopsided appearance on that side.
He’d never been aroused by a squashed breast before, especially not when the owner of said breast was frightened, but Rick was only human, and she was…well…in that dress. On his lap. And it had been a long time since his lap had entertained anything other than a cereal bowl or his cat’s abject disapproval.
“You’d make an even worse sausage,” she continued, “Because let’s be honest, you don’t have an ounce of fat on your body. Which would be sexier if I didn’t think it was because you don’t eat enough. That’s probably my fault. I’m charging you way too much rent, and you can’t afford to eat, and now they won’t make you into sausage, and you’ll probably end up strips of Rick jerky covered with too much pepper or not enough teriyaki and—”
Okeydokey. Watching her have a mild coronary event was not in the plan for this date. Rick took her hands so she stopped poking a hole in one of the most appealing breasts he’d ever seen.
“Lana, breathe.”
The sausage grinder’s choice to make several loud squealing noises at the time did not help his case. Her eyes widened, so Rick pulled her in closer.
“I can afford to feed myself,” Rick said. “Rent’s high because rent’s always high in Alaska. No one is making jerky out of me, and they’re definitely not going to make sausage out of you.”