Текст книги "Best Worst Mistake"
Автор книги: Lia Riley
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Dedication
To my readers, you guys are the best
Acknowledgments
GRATITUDE, AS ALWAYS, to my brilliant editor, Amanda Bergeron, who makes everything I write way better. Special appreciation is also due to the fabulous Gabrielle Keck. To my lovely agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, you always know when to give the perfect pep talk and it’s so very appreciated.
Love to my dear writing compadres: Jennifer Ryan, Jennifer Blackwood, Natalie Blitt, Jules Barnard, Megan Erickson, and A.J. Pine.
Super special thanks to my family for putting up with me. When I grunt an answer or stare off into the distance, what I’m really saying is “I love you.”
To my readers, I couldn’t do any of this without you. Your support means the world.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Curious Tale of the Castle Falls Phantom
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
An Excerpt from Right Wrong Guy
About the Author
Also by Lia Riley
An Excerpt from The Bride Wore Red Boots by Lizbeth Selvig
An Excerpt from Rescued by the Ranger by Dixie Lee Brown
An Excerpt from One Scandalous Kiss by Christy Carlyle
An Excerpt from Dirty Talk by Megan Erickson
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Curious Tale of the Castle Falls Phantom
(Excerpt from Brightwater: Small Town, Big Dreams)
DURING THE DAWN of the twentieth century, an alleged phantom haunted Castle Falls Gulch just beyond the Brightwater city limits. Anglers and hunters alike spun fireside yarns about a so-called “watcher in the woods.” A strange phenomenon was also noticed near the riverbanks above the cascades, circles of flowers, perfectly formed fairy rings.
Many townsfolk believed the area was haunted and stayed away, but a few attributed the ghostly occurrences to the Castle Falls hermit. While his existence has never been proven, sightings of a mysterious man along the riverbanks occurred on and off for nearly twenty years. Unsubstantiated rumors claimed he was everything from a ne’er-do-well hobo to a murderer on the lam to the victim of a horrendous physical malformation. As a result, Castle Falls and its surrounds were considered a place better avoided and remain unpopular to this day despite the area’s abundant natural beauty.
Stories of the phantom and the enigmatic fairy circles eventually dwindled. The official cause was never determined.
Chapter One
FIFTEEN HUNDRED FEET below the plane window, smoke and flame rose from the mountainside as if a dragon prowled the forest. “McDonald! Kane!” The spotter beckoned, shouting over the Twin Otter’s noisy propellers. “You’re up.”
Wilder Kane tightened his helmet’s chinstrap and maneuvered through the aircraft’s jam-packed interior, which was teeming with equipment and other smoke jumpers. The adrenaline surge added an extra beat to his heart and cleared away the mental cobwebs. After reaching the back, he jittered his boot heel against the floor while his partner, McDonald, took position in the open door.
“Got any plans for your mandatory day?” the spotter hollered, bracing a hand on the roof as they hit a pocket of clear air turbulence and dropped hard. It was a record temperature outside and Wilder’s gut rolled with the plane as he breathed deep, inhaling fuel and a hint of charred wood. Friday was his day off—he had to take one every three weeks because of pain-in-the-ass regulations. He’d just as soon work through the whole damn season.
“Probably going for a ride.” Free time meant thinking. Better to spend days off screaming his mountain bike down heart-pounding single track in the Rattlesnake Wilderness or Pattee Canyon.
“A couple of us are going into Missoula for the night. Come along and bikini-scope college girls down by the river.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Occasionally, he drove west on I-90 to the Silver Dollar or Rusty Spur and searched the roadside bars for a pretty face and weary eyes. Someone hoping to forget, if only for an hour. Someone like him. Bubbly and cheerful younger women weren’t his type. He’d lost hope and innocence so long ago, it was hard to know if he ever had them at all.
“Jesus, Brick.” The spotter shook his head, annoyance and amusement warring across his features. “Anyone ever try and clue you in to the fact that you’re a surly S.O.B.?”
“Once or twice,” Wilder replied, scrubbing the thick scruff on his jaw. “But they never made the mistake again.”
The spotter’s laugh boomed. “You’re something else.”
“Got that right.” McDonald twisted around from his seated position in the door and shook his head. “Something that needs to get laid.”
Wilder shrugged. He hadn’t earned the nickname Brick for nothing. He caught good-natured shit from the others for the steadfast way he maintained an unflappable personal wall, a stoic face no matter the situation, but he didn’t care. This job wasn’t about the accolades or prestige.
He was a smoke jumper because it was the only thing he could ever be.
He knew no other way to endure himself.
For the next two minutes, he’d be a kickass parachutist, and the second he hit the ground, it was time to transform into a firefighting machine—a smoke jumper’s real work. What other career required flying over desolate wilderness with a team of warriors and jumping from a small plane armed with not much more than an axe, shovel, and iron-clad balls?
Best job on earth.
The inferno devouring Lost Moose Gulch appeared to be a classic “gobbler,” a wildfire hungry for destruction. Detected two days ago, following an unremarkable lightning strike in the remote wilderness, the resulting smolder took advantage of the summer’s bone-dry conditions and changeable Montana weather, especially here along the Continental Divide. The calming wind left the fire vulnerable to defeat—just—providing the team could rally quick, scratch some lines to make a fire break, and hook it. If they couldn’t gain the upper hand within a day or two, an extended attack crew would be sent out, the on-ground hotshots.
Wilder didn’t have any intention of letting that happen. He won. That was his reputation. He threw himself against every blaze as if his very life hung in the balance, and it did, in more ways than the others ever guessed.
The spotter slapped McDonald’s shoulder, and he was out the door in a blink.
“Take position,” came the order.
Wilder stepped forward, licking his dry lips. His partner’s parachute opened and McDonald swung around, expertly steering toward the designated jump site, a pre-determined meadow.
“Get ready,” called the spotter.
Wilder crouched to sitting and braced his hands on the outside of the plane, the aluminum cold against his palms. Tension hummed through his body. His muscles might as well be rendered stone. The second the spotter’s hand slapped his shoulder he flung forward with every ounce of strength, giving over to the void.
He closed his eyes, in the tuck position, savoring the few seconds of free fall, the blissfully mind-numbing silence. Goddamn. Allowing his lips to curl into a rare smile, he exhaled a contented breath. No better place existed than this limbo between earth and sky. Once out of the plane there were no take backs, only total commitment. The buzz gave way to a moment of absolute clarity. It was about being alive, about—
A sharp jerk wrenched him back into the present, knocking his teeth together.
He twisted, glancing up. What the shit? His head rang as his heart rate soared. Streamer malfunction. The parachute hadn’t opened right. Bad news. Really fucking bad news. He yanked the reserve but they had jumped low and at a thousand feet, there wasn’t time to do much before he slammed into the earth at a hundred miles an hour.
This was going to go either of two ways: a lot of hurt or game over.
Impossible to gain orientation amid the gut-twisting free spin. Landscape flipped past in a nauseating kaleidoscope, blue sky, green forest, blue sky, green forest, a river, fuck—the river? He’d careened too far from the jump site, over the steep gulch. An inferno now separated him from McDonald. The scenic beauty of this stark, lonely landscape was a steep and jagged catch-22. Crashing into the roughest terrain east of the divide would make it damn near impossible for a quick rescue.
If there was anything left of him to save.
The tree canopy closed in. Got to relax. If his muscles remained rigid, the impact would destroy vital organs. Better to keep his legs moving to avoid locked limbs, cover his head with his arms, elbows forward, lacing his fingers behind his neck. Wind roared in his face. Strange how his life didn’t flash before his eyes, only smoke and flame.
Figured.
A crash, a snap of bone or branch, followed by an agonizing pain through his lower leg and then nothing at all.
WILDER BLINKED BUT the world remained upside down. He tested his jaw. Not broken. His back ached while his left leg had a complete absence of feeling. Willing his rattled brains to come to order, he swung forward as silvery stars cascaded past his field of vision. Looked like he’d gotten strung up in a lodgepole pine. How long had he swung from his ropes like a pendulum, blood pooling in his head? He waited until the vertigo passed and took a shuddering breath. The main chute had tangled in the branches while his left leg was caught tight in the reserve’s line, cutting circulation off below the knee. Not good.
The forest was silent except for the branch creaking under his weight. No one else was around for miles. He’d blown too far off course.
If he was going to escape then it was up to him—for once it would pay to be a stubborn S.O.B.
Getting down wasn’t going to be a picnic, not with a headfirst, ten-foot plummet to anticipate. No choice though, especially not when the ridgeline above exploded in an avalanche of flame.
Aw shit.
His whole body reacted against the impending doom. A pulse ticked in his throat as cold sweat sheened his chest. He hadn’t survived the fall to be roasted alive. No. No. No. His thoughts screamed until he realized it was his own voice chanting the single word.
No man in his sound mind longed for death, but he’d idly hoped for a car accident or disease when his time came. Even a gunshot or poison.
Anything but fucking fire.
Wilder fumbled for the compact utility knife clipped to his Kevlar jumpsuit and after a few clumsy attempts, his trembling fingers popped open the blade. There were a shitload of cords and he ground his wrist hard, sawing back and forth, going through one after another.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. The initial fall’s impact left him with as much strength as a baby. “Stay in control.” Hard to believe the pep talk given the pathetic rasp undercutting his voice. The forest thickened with choking smoke.
After he cut some ten cords, he dropped an inch, two more and then a foot while embers drifted past, devilish fairies, bright with hypnotic beauty. He couldn’t afford to screw up this landing because in another minute it was going to be out of the frying pan and into the—damn it—he recoiled from the explosion as the fire jumped from the ground to the tree canopy with a noise like a freight train taking a corner too fast.
His blade popped through the final filaments and he plummeted to the pine needle duff with a muffled thud, automatically rolling away from the encroaching blaze. He pushed to his feet and keeled over. Something was wonky with his left leg, the one still wound tight in the reserve parachute line. He lurched up and fell again, panting. A few large scattered boulders ahead where the trees thinned. A clearing.
The Lost Moose Gulch landslide.
He exhaled, a jolt of purpose shooting through his core, open space meant a shot at survival.
If he could crawl, there might be a chance.
His radio crackled from his backpack. “Kane, are you there? Fucking copy, man.”
McDonald.
A crash. Wilder froze as a doe and fawn hauled ass through the underbrush. They each had four working legs to their advantage. The air was devoid of birdsong, even the radio’s static couldn’t compete with the roar—the same nightmarish sound that haunted his dreams for over twenty years.
Fire had always held a strange sort of destructive beauty, dazzling in its doom. He learned that lesson as a six-year-old, while his little brothers, Sawyer and Archer, clung to his hands, whimpering while their family home transformed into an inferno, trapping Mommy and Dad inside.
The two younger boys had cried when the roof caved, after the police and firefighters arrived too late to do anything but sort through the smoldering rubble. They sobbed until Grandma Kane had showed up in her flannel pajamas, hair tightly rolled in pink curlers, offering stiff but heartfelt hugs.
Wilder hadn’t said a word. He didn’t have the right to tears.
Not when everything was all his fault.
This job, this life, was a way to atone.
But he came from a long line of gamblers, and every debt must eventually be paid, right?
Wrong. The fire wouldn’t win. Not today.
He tore open his backpack and grabbed the radio. “Copy, McDonald, I’m here, but things are getting hot.”
“What are your coordinates, over?”
The embers lit the underbrush around him, a dozen tiny spot fires stood between him and the clearing. Time was almost out. He scrambled faster.
“Can’t check the GPS,” Wilder panted. “Got to deploy the fire blanket pronto. My location is the southern perimeter of the Lost Moose Gulch landslide, over.”
The heat was all consuming. It was too much. Too far. He heaved onto his back, to glimpse a last patch of blue, a final shred of sky, but nothing remained except for an ashy haze.
Death would come quick and there was a certain mercy in that knowledge. Maybe on the other side his parents waited, and he could finally say sorry.
Or he might burn forever.
Either way he’d soon find out.
The sound of mad thrashing grabbed his attention and he turned, raising his head. The baby deer from earlier had run headlong into a thicket on the rockslide’s edge, trapping itself among the bramble in its panic, abandoned by a terrified mother.
The pitiful sight forced him to gather the dregs of his nonexistent strength. Just a little farther. Hand over hand, ignoring the coals branding his palms, the sweat stinging his eyes, he reached the fawn. It struggled for a moment before stilling, as if understanding this was the only choice.
Wilder couldn’t feel the thorns, not through the red-hot pain radiating across his palms and shooting up his arms. “Go,” he growled at the fawn, ripping down the branches and slapping its spindly leg. “Get out of here.” He tugged the fire blanket from his backpack. Survival odds were statistically nil. The blanket might protect him from the fire’s caress but the heat could easily scald his lungs, incinerating from the inside out.
The young deer didn’t budge, instead it stared transfixed by the approaching horror.
With a muffled curse, Wilder seized the delicate, trembling body tight, somehow tugging the blanket over them as the fire’s edge passed like a vengeful angel of death. He angled his face down toward the rocks, running water bubbled only feet below, the cool damp temperature making it possible to breathe.
After a few seconds, minutes, or hours, the roar subdued to a crackle, and the deer stirred, hopping to shaky legs and tearing out from under the blanket toward the west without a backward glance.
Wilder coughed and wiped his mouth, ignoring the blood staining his blistered hand.
Bright blue fireworks shot across his peripheral vision as the womp-womp-womp sound of a helicopter closed in. More time passed and then a deep voice called his name.
He couldn’t answer.
Couldn’t sit.
Couldn’t do a damn thing but slump under the blanket, suspended in this numb semiconscious state, teetering on the edge of oblivion.
THE WORLD HAD gone white. Was this the other side—whatever came next? No. Not unless the afterlife was full of dull, throbbing pain, that peculiar hospital disinfectant smell, and voices refusing to ever shut up.
“Wilder? Wilder?”
“Did you see his eyelids twitch?” Another deep voice chimed in. “See? There they go again.”
“Come on, man.” The first male voice increased in intensity. “Wake up.”
You’ve got to be shitting me. His brothers were here. Sawyer. Archer. He hadn’t seen these two in years. Couldn’t bear their presence. Not when he’d ruined their lives.
He dragged his lids open, no small effort when each must weigh a few hundred pounds.
“Hey, you.” Archer bent down, trying and failing to execute his trademark permagrin. “Good to see those bright eyes. You’ve been scaring us all shitless.”
Wilder cracked his mouth open but no sounds emerged except for a groggy jumble of consonants, like his tongue had transformed into a cotton ball. Christ. What happened? His hands were wrapped in thick gauze, the fingertips an angry red. Last he remembered, the fire somehow left him alive. Then there was a helicopter, right? Clearly the cavalry had come.
But everything since was a black hole.
The mattress creaked as he shifted, trying to shield his eyes from the fluorescent light. Why did his body feel off? Something wasn’t right. He contracted his abdominal muscles, raised himself to half-sitting before Sawyer braced his back. “Hey, come on now, go easy.”
Wilder gaped at the lump under the sheet, the stump that ended where his left calf and foot used to be. “Where the hell is my leg?” Talk about five words he never expected to say.
Sawyer spoke slowly, getting down to business. “After the accident, you lost circulation for too long, and with the fire, the helicopter had a hard time Life Flighting you to the hospital. Coupled with a shattered leg, the lack of blood flow meant that necrosis set in and the tissue damage was irreversible.”
Wilder couldn’t focus on the words. They made too much sense and this situation had taken a wrong turn to the land of fucking insane. His windpipe went on lockdown. He pushed to the edge of the bed, toppling an IV tower.
“Let’s call the doctor in,” Archer said, glancing to the door.
“Wilder. Listen to me. You can’t stand up,” Sawyer ordered. “Take it easy, we’re going to sort this out. You’ll get a prosthetic soon and with some work and time, you’ll be able to resume most activities no problem. It’s amazing you’ve survived given what—”
“Stop. Stop talking.” Wilder buried his face in his hands. He could kiss his career goodbye. Jumping was out of the question. His only way to cope had gone up in flames.
“This has to be a helluva shock.” Archer rapped his knuckles on the side of the bed. “But don’t forget one thing—we’re family. No matter what happens, Sawyer and I have got your back. Always have, always will. We’re not giving up.”
“Look at me.” Wilder signaled to the empty space in disgust. “I’m half a fucking man.”
“I don’t make a habit of judging a book by its cover and neither should you,” Sawyer said quietly. “We’re here to help—”
“Help. You want to help?” Wilder growled, fighting for equilibrium but losing the battle to vertigo. He might be the oldest brother, but right now he felt ancient.
Sawyer’s chiseled features froze a moment before he gave a small smile. “Anything. Say the word and it’s as good as done.”
Wilder used the last of his reserve strength to lift his head, struggling to bring their faces into focus and level a hard stare. He’d reached the end of his rope and was in a free fall to hell.
“Get me a gun or get out.”
Chapter Two
Four Months Later . . .
THE LES MIZ soundtrack tested the limits of the bookstore’s rinky-dink boom box. No customers were around so Quinn Higsby joined in, belting out along with Fantine and her broken dreams. Big, fat snowflakes spiraled past the plate glass window, ferried along by the strengthening wind as a looming cloud wall replaced the normally heart-stopping view of rugged Eastern Sierras’s peaks. Right at the crescendo, the phone’s shrill ring cut in, ruining the moment. She turned down the volume, cleared her throat, and answered, “Good afternoon, A Novel Experience, the place where you can read yourself interesting.”
“Hey, honey, it’s me. Listen, I’m not going to be able to get into the store in time for close. The Weather Channel is saying tonight’s storm will be a doozy.” Quinn’s boss, Natalie, was visiting her new boyfriend up in South Lake Tahoe.
“That’s okay, the store’s been deserted all afternoon. Book club got canceled. You just worry about keeping snug and warm.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be any problem.” Natalie let out a mischievous giggle. She was fifty years young and had found real happiness with a blackjack dealer and Johnny Depp look-alike ten years her junior.
“You’re so bad.” Quinn glanced down at her solitaire game on the counter, grinning from ear to ear. Her former job had made it hard to believe any decent people remained in the state. This assistant bookseller position might pay peanuts and lack glamor, but she was happier than she’d ever been in Hollywood.
“Bad is the new good—you’ve got my permission to stick that on one of your t-shirts.”
In addition to her faith in humanity, Quinn had also left behind high fashion in Los Angeles in favor of vintage denim and funny slogan shirts. Today’s choice was a grey hoodie that read, “I love to party, and by party I mean read books.”
Which was the actual truth, no shame. She had a thing for older men—much older men to be exact. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightley, and Captain Wentworth were all excellent boyfriend material, and the magic of literature meant it didn’t matter if they clocked in at well over one hundred years old. Those guys still had it going on.
“Quinn, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
She snapped to ramrod straight posture. “Of course.”
“You’ve drifted off with the fairies again, haven’t you?” Natalie said fondly. “I said that you should leave early too, beat the storm. Oh, and shoot, there’s that package to mail, I meant to—”
“Stop. Breathe. Think about your blood pressure. I’ll handle it no problem.” After all, handling was what Quinn did best, at least until that unfortunate night in Beverly Hills a few months ago when her career as a celebrity handler came to a fast and furious end—fired for having a pretty face and a lecherous client. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, smoothing the ends. “Now listen, I want you to get back and enjoy, er, whatever dirty deeds you are enjoying.”
“I love you, peaches.” Natalie planted a loud, affectionate smooch on her receiver.
“You must be getting treated right in that love nest.” Quinn chuckled. “Remember how just last week you called me a pinecone after I advised that one customer where to find a title online rather than offering to order it into the shop. Which, for the record, was totally boneheaded of me.”
“Pshaw. That was my hot flash talking. You know how I adore you.”
“Yeah, I do actually.” And Quinn did. Natalie didn’t have children of her own so she mothered everyone. Unlike Quinn’s own mom who was far more interested in a quixotic quest for the Fountain of Youth with her endless mud baths, antioxidant facials, and plastic surgery appointments down in Palm Springs. “Hey, real quick, before you get your jiggy back on, want to hear this week’s mystery order?”
“Always.”
“Let me see.” Quinn peered into the cardboard box beside her feet. “We have The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, The Sound and the Fury, Frankenstein, and Fun with Whittling.”
“Fun with Whittling?” Natalie hooted. “Oh, jeez. Eclectic as always.”
“Next week might be Duct Tape Art or Tapophilia 101.”
“Tapo-what?”
“You know, gravestone rubbings—with charcoal and butcher paper?” Quinn shook her head—useless information took up way too much grey matter real estate. “Anyway, we should try and predict the order.”
“Ha, we’ll lose.”
“No doubt.” The snow fell in earnest now, making it hard to see across Brightwater’s Main Street. She had to leave soon to hit the post office before checking in on Dad. “Hey, I should get moving. Have yourself a great night.”
“Of course, I’ll be in when we open again, day after tomorrow. Black Friday means green for us. And thank you, sweetie. I won’t do anything that you wouldn’t do.”
Quinn laughed. Mostly because she didn’t do anything. Hadn’t in well over a year. She hung up the phone and grabbed a marker and packing tape. Sealing the package shut, she printed across the top in big black letters:
W. Kane
405 Castle Falls Lane
Brightwater, California 96104
“W. Kane.” She tapped the initials. The mysterious W. Kane started emailing orders right after she moved to town and landed this job. A Novel Experience didn’t have a digital store; instead this person just sent requests and monthly checks. Each week was the same, a curtly worded request for four or five wildly different titles to be posted to the Castle Falls address. Last week was Virginia Woolf, Shakespeare, Dr. Seuss, and Nora Roberts. Odd combo and strange in the day and age of online shopping but, hey—no complaints if someone wanted to buy local.
Quinn shrugged into her white puffy coat, the marshmallow-looking one that seemed like overkill when she purchased it during a SoCal summer sale but now appeared totally sensible. Brightwater’s autumn had been mild but as soon as mid-November struck it was as if the weather gods were issued a green light to let the elements rip. Temperatures plummeted and everyone in the checkout line at the Save-U-More suddenly discussed nothing but snowfall predictions and when the ski hills would open.
Quinn struggled with walking in a straight line while chewing gum, so the idea of careening down a steep slope on a pair of glorified sticks held little appeal. Plus, as much as she was happy to leave her sunny beach life behind, she and winter weren’t going to be besties.
Grabbing the store keys, she hefted the book box under her arm and flicked off the light. The shop had been quiet today, most of autumn actually, except for the Chicklits, the book club that met Wednesday mornings. But Natalie reassured her that things would pick up once the snow bunnies flocked to the mountains. Summer was also apparently boom time with all the newcomers flooding in to build their second, third, or even fourth vacation homes.
“Enjoy the quiet, it won’t last,” Natalie often said from her ancient red velvet chair that was perpetually stationed by the window, nose buried in a book. Sometimes Quinn wondered if Natalie had used her parents’ inheritance to start a bookshop in order to justify reading all day. But then it did seem like a perfectly reasonable way to spend both money and time.
She stepped outside, lungs constricting from the sharp cold. Holy heck, if it wasn’t even December yet, what would official winter-winter feel like?
Scary thought.
Fumbling with the big brass door key, she finally got it locked and, turning, collided with a body, a big, hard masculine body. The type that could play NFL football and was topped by the sort of face often seen on a Disney hero, unquestionably handsome but almost cartoonish with an oversized jaw and deep canyon chin cleft. Thick blond hair protruded from underneath his navy blue “Brightwater Volunteer Firefighter” ball cap.
“Garret, what a . . . surprise.”
“A good one, I hope?” Garret King’s toothy grin matched the snow. No. Scratch that, those stark white incisors outshined the swirling flakes. Some women no doubt swooned for his type, but that muscleman build, stylishly disheveled hair, and sexy-and-I-know-it attitude left her decidedly unintoxicated.
“Cold day.” She checked her coat’s zipper and steered the subject straight to Boring Town. Garret was the exact type of person she’d hoped to leave behind in Hollywood. Figured that she’d flee across half the state to a small mountain town only to collide with someone whose ego rivaled any multimillion-dollar overentitled action star’s.
“We’re going to The Dirty Shame,” he said, blocking her path.
“We?”
“You. Me. A few IPAs.” Sunglasses were required to withstand those luminescent chompers.
She tried not to let her annoyance show. “Sounds like a blast, but I’m pretty busy.”
“Busy?” His smile dimmed to a lower watt. “With what?” As if how could anything be more important than fawning over him?
Good grief, she’d rather watch paint dry in one hundred percent relative humidity.
“I have to run to the post office to send off this package to a customer and then duck around to check on my dad.”
“Oh yeah, how is Crazy ol’ Higsby these days?” Lenny, Garret’s friend, sprouted like a surprise mushroom behind his best buddy’s elbow. His snub nose was a mottled red and dripped before he could wipe it on his fleece sleeve. “Did you know the last time I saw him out and about was at the Save-U-More? He growled at someone in the meat department. Growled! As if the butcher would give him a bone or something.”
Even Garret looked shocked.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” Quinn snapped, any patience evaporating in a flash. “My father is a sick man. That’s not justifiable cause for mocking him.”
“Of course not.” Garret sent Lenny reeling with a sharp elbow jab. “Hey, don’t be an asshole, dude,” he ordered.
“Yeah, well, have a good evening, fellas.” When would icicles be hanging from the rafters? She’d love to clock the pair of them over their thick insensitive heads.
“Wait, hold up, I’ll walk with you,” Garret said, brushing past Lenny. “Keep you safe.”
She fought a hard eye roll while regarding the empty sidewalk. “Oh, spare me,” she muttered.
“What was that?” Garret leaned in. “You want my phone number? No need to mumble. You only have to ask.”
“Thanks but that won’t be necessary.” She sidestepped him and dodged Lenny, increasing her pace. Throughout the autumn, she had put out every polite “no way in hell” signal that she could think of. Did she emit some sort of jerk-magnet pheromone? Douche Bag No. 5?
