Grabbing my coat, I race out the door, grateful that I paid extra for the heated walkway. Todd and ice don’t like each other. And Nurse Chilson has already paid for one child’s college education courtesy of moi. She’s on her own for the next one.
I could slow my steps but that would keep me in proximity to Donna for longer, and I don’t need that. It’s not that I have a problem with her. Quite the contrary. After talking with her in Portland, and especially after her asking Hawk Weaver to come out to play, I’m not too proud to admit I did a little internet stalking.
She’s fucking amazing. Not only does she remind me of one of those contestants on America’s Top Model, she’s an incredibly savvy business woman. Her marketing plan is solid, focusing on her books’ sex appeal and the fantasies of strong, independent women who take what they want with no regrets. Her author ranking and each of her books prove she’s doing everything right.
By the description of each story, I suspect many of her female characters are a lot like her on the surface. Beautiful, self-assured, and full of passion and drive.
Donna, on the other hand, is much more. In the limited amount of time we’ve spent together, I could tell there’s more to her than meets the eye. While she’s everything she puts into her story, deep down I think there’s a version of her begging to come out. She just needs a place to figure that out. Right here in my “chalet” as she called it is probably a good place to start.
And for her to do the soul searching she needs, she doesn’t need the distraction of one super sexy narrator—slash—businessman.
Slamming my car door, I shove the key in the ignition of my 2002 Honda Accord and crank the engine. Except . . .
Nothing happens.
Shit, I think as I try again with the clicking sound practically mocking me and the fact that I’m not going anywhere any time soon. What the hell could have killed my battery?
Looking around to try and dispel the mystery, I realize I never turned the light off when I dropped my phone under the seat and went looking for it earlier. That’ll do it. Not the smartest move on my part and not at all conducive for leaving Donna to do some soul searching.
Oh well. Looks like her girls’ weekend has turned into a dual gender evening.
Climbing out of my car, I ponder how to get back inside. Do I knock? Just walk in? Will I startle her? Surely she’ll realize I’m not gone yet since it’s less than two minutes since I walked out.
Decision made, I turn the handle and walk through the door to find my man JT still crooning away and Donna—
Shimmying.
“Having fun?”
“Ahh!” she yells as she spins around and lands in a fighting position again.
“Slow down there, Karate Kid. Last time you did that, you almost passed out.”
Fortunately for the both of us, and the corner of the end table which doesn’t like having people fall on it, she recognizes me faster this time and continues to breathe.
Straightening, her cheeks tinge with pink from either embarrassment or exertion. It’s really anyone’s guess.
“You really need to stop sneaking up on me.”
“I left only seconds ago. Who else could it have been?”
“Well let’s see.” Her arms cross over her chest. Uh oh. The lawyer is coming out. I’m in for a verbal sparring session. “I’m in the middle of nowhere in a cabin alone and it’s dark out. So Freddy, Jason, or pretty much any cast member of the Scream movies.”
“Touché.”
Dropping back on the couch, I’m glad to see her look relaxed already. This trip is already good for her.
“But seriously,” she continues, dropping down beside me, “I thought you had to race out of here.”
“I thought I did too, but it appears the shagging wagon has different ideas.”
She cocks her head at me, one brow practically touching her hairline. “Shagging wagon?”
“Land yacht?” She continues to look at me funny. “Pimp mobile? Four-banger?” Still staring. “My car, Donna.”
“Oh I know what all those words mean. I just haven’t heard them used in a non-story related way since, oh, the eighties.”
It’s my turn to look at her funny. At least it makes her laugh.
“Sorry.” She covers her mouth with her finger tips. “I’m not trying to be insulting. You’re just kind of odd.”
Leaning back, I stretch my legs out and lay my head on the cushion. “Odd is in the mind of the beholder.”
“That’s not how the saying goes.”
“I’m the beholder, so in my mind it does.”
This time she laughs out loud. I can’t contain my smirk. I like the sound of her happiness.
“Okay, okay. I concede. But really, why are you back? I don’t mind. Just curious.”
Sighing, I’m finally ready to admit my failure. “I left the dome light on in my car.”
“Oh, that sucks. Is someone coming to give you a jump?”
This is the part where her city girl knowledge is completely useless. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not leaving her alone on her first night. I bet she doesn’t even know how to keep a fire going.
“Holy shit,” I exclaim. “Do you know how to keep a fire going?”
“Yes.” She looks around, refusing to make eye contact with me. “Maybe.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I can’t help but press the issue. “How.” I don’t even ask. I basically demand proof that she won’t die of hypothermia if the power were to go out.
“You . . .” she lifts her hands up, hands clenched like she’s holding something and starts jabbing at the air. “Stoke it.”
Turning to face her, I cross my arms. “And?”
“And . . . blow on it, I don’t know, okay?” Her admission of defeat makes me laugh. “I have no idea how to keep a fire going so you should probably cancel that jump for your car so I don’t accidentally live in the forest wrong.”
Once I finally stop laughing, I let her in on a little secret. “Donna, no one is coming up here to jump my car.”
“What?”
“Honey, it’s dark out. No one is gonna brave these roads with a storm getting ready to blow in.”
Her head whips around to look out the window. Sadly, the only thing she’s going to see now is our reflection because of the dark. “There’s a storm coming?”
“Not a big one. Just enough to keep people at home for the night,” I say with a shrug. “It’s pretty normal around here. And Old Man Davies is the only mechanic in town who would be willing to come out and help, but since it’s after hours, I’m positive he’s already at least one and a half sheets to the wind.”
That eyebrow of hers goes up again. “Let me guess, not quite drunk yet but enough that you won’t want him anywhere near the driver’s side of a car?”
I tap my nose. “You got it.”
She takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah, it’s really different here, and I’ve only been glamping for an hour so far.”
“Welcome to small-town life. Now,” I say, patting her leg and standing up to face her, “are you an unpacker or a live out of the suitcase kind of girl?”
She huffs with humor. “I’m on a working vacation. Of course I’m living out of the suitcase.”
“Well, then go roll your monstrosity of a suitcase into the master bedroom—”
“Hey, it’s full of winter clothes!”
“—so you can change, and I’m going to go make us a hearty meal.”
“You can cook?”
Pointing at myself, I let her in on another puzzle piece that is the life of Todd. “Born and raised by a single mom who refused to wait on me hand and foot. I can make a mean cheese and cracker plate.”
“That actually sounds perfect.”
“Good. Now hop to it, lady. We’ve got to get a move on. Blake Shelton won’t watch himself.”
She pauses, mid-rise. “Blake Shelton?”
I stare at her, mouth half open in shock. “Please don’t tell me you’ve
never watched The Voice. I don’t want to have to kick you out into the snow tonight.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just hang out on the fancy heated driveway.”
“Good call. With a couple of blankets, you could probably survive the night.”
“Fortunately”—she completes her rise and puts her hands on her hips—“I have seen The Voice before, so any blankets in this house are staying on the beds tonight.”
I wipe my brow in mock relief. “Don’t do that to me. I think my heart missed a few beats.”
She has the wherewithal to roll her eyes at me. Just for that, I might keep the smoked gouda for myself.
“I think your heart will be fine,” she says condescendingly as she walks by patting my arm. “Now go make me some food.”
“On it.” I mock salute. “Master bedroom is at the very end of the hall.”
I turn toward the kitchen but stop when the reflection of Donna walking away distracts me from my steps. Damn. She’s beautiful, smart, and witty as a clam. Too bad it’s Hawk Weaver she wants, not Todd Chimolski.
Chapter 11
Donna
I lied. I’ve never watched The Voice. I’m sure it’s a good show but reality competition shows have never been my thing. While I love music, I love the written word more.
Still, the look on Todd’s face had me concerned he was going to have a myocardial infarction on the spot, so I fibbed a little. Plus, I’m probably the only person in America who hasn’t seen the show. I didn’t want to seem weird.
Not that the guy who sports ugly shirts and recites incorrect phrases would judge me. Or maybe he would. He seems to have an unnatural crush on Blake Shelton. That surprises me a little after hearing his music choice when I walked in the door. Which is exactly what led me to open my secret playlist and shake my ass to my own JT favorite song before he busted me.
Doing as instructed, I drag my suitcase down the hall to the master bedroom. The door is ajar, but the room is as dark as the night. Feeling around aimlessly on the wall, I find the light switch and flick it on. The lights on the ceiling fan come to life and I’m blown away by what I see. The room is very similar to the main living space. The colors are in the same palette and the far wall has a beautiful armoire that is twice the size of any piece of furniture I’ve owned. The massive king size bed is at least five feet off the ground and the plush white bedding and plethora of pillows is begging for me to hop on it and snuggle in for a good night’s sleep. Have no fear pillows, we’ll be one very soon.
Settling my suitcase on the floor against the far wall, I quickly open it and pull out a pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. Relaxation isn’t going to be an issue this weekend, but the first step to that is peeling myself out of these jeans. As I step into the large bathroom, I pause in pure awe. A large tub with a huge window I’m sure has a view to die for, is nestled in the corner. Just past it is a shower that could easily fit four adults and still have room to move around. A sex shower. Or at least in one of my books, it would be a sex shower. This tub though, that’s all me. I hope there’s a bath bomb or at least some bath crystals in one of these drawers.
Letting out a loud rumble, my stomach reminds me I’m starving. Working double time, I change my clothes and pull my hair into a top knot, securing it with a large claw clip. Pausing to take in my appearance, I hear a roar of applause wafting through the house and know Todd has turned on his show.
Padding my way down the hall, I pause in the entryway to the living room where Todd is lounging on the couch. In one hand is a bottle of beer while the other holds a remote control. I look at the large television and see the numbers indicating the volume on the incline. As the numbers rise, so does the voice of the host as he fills the room.
“Do we have to blow an eardrum to listen to this?”
Sputtering his beer, Todd leans forward and coughs before turning his gaze to me. “Yes.”
Laughing, I take the spot on the opposite end of the couch where a fresh glass of wine sits next to a very sad attempt at a charcuterie plate. Strewn haphazardly on a large wooden cutting board is a pile of crackers, two blocks of cheese with a knife sticking out of one of them, and a bowl of grapes.
“No Cheese Whiz?” I ask as I pop a grape in my mouth.
“Sadly, no. I was shopping for Aggi and not myself. Are you also a fan of processed cheese?”
“Oh yeah. Fake cheese is the best. I do prefer it on a pile of tortilla chips though.”
Nodding in agreement, Todd eyes me over the rim of his bottle as he takes a sip. The look on his face has the hair on the back of my neck standing up. Not in a creepy horror movie killer sort of way but more in a “if he says anything in a Hawk Weaver voice, I won’t be responsible for what happens” kind of way.
No. No. What the hell? He wears shirts with leprechauns and listens to reality competition shows at full volume. Not my type at all. Breaking eye contact, I take the knife from the block of cheese and keep myself busy slicing it into cracker size pieces as he turns his attention back to the screen.
We sit in comfortable silence as the competitors belt out not only modern top forty hits but also a few classics as well. I’m not saying I plan to set my DVR to record future episodes, but I will admit I don’t exactly mind this. Some of these kids are truly talented.
“What are you doing?” I ask as Todd stands and raises his arms above his head stretching. The jeans lie low on his hips allowing the band of his underwear to peek out from the waistband. Color me surprised. I would’ve pegged Todd as a tighty whities kind of guy, not boxers. They aren’t even boxer briefs. Todd is an old school checkered boxers guy.
“Uh, replenishing our refreshments. We have two more episodes to go.”
“Two? How long is this show on for?”
Lowering his arms, Todd turns his attention to me, staring for a few beats, never blinking. Okay, that’s creepy. I didn’t know we were in a staring contest but here we are. It’s only seconds but my eyes are burning, and I need him to blink. Come on, Todd. Blink. Nothing. Dammit.
Waving the proverbial white flag, I blink multiple times in quick recession. Tears fill my eyes and my eyeballs jump for joy. I don’t think my eyes burned that bad when I was a kid. Or, if they did, I was too busy doing victory laps to care.
“I have three recorded. I rarely watch anything live. I hate the commercials and if I record them, I can watch that much faster. Fast forward is my friend.”
“It’s recorded? Then why didn’t you fast forward through that awful dog caller woman?”
“You seemed to enjoy her rendition of Proud Mary, I didn’t want to end it too soon for you.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up my empty wine glass in one hand and the tray of snacks in the other before making my way to the kitchen. Quickly, I wrap up the cheese and place it in the refrigerator and also refill my glass with the open bottle of wine in the door. I’ve made it three steps out of the kitchen when I notice Todd on his knees before the fireplace. He has the large poker in his hand and is moving around the coals.
He may not have the body of a cover model or any of the suits I’ve been dating lately, but Todd does have a nice ass. Bringing my glass to my lips, I slowly sip as I admire the way he moves on the floor, filling the fireplace with fresh logs. The snap and crackle of the fire is something I’ve only ever seen on television or imagined in my mind. Flashes of a scene in the book I’m writing pops in my head and I set my glass down on the breakfast bar and rush to my room to grab my laptop.
Pulling it from my carry-on, I open the lid and tap the power button as I walk down the hall back to the living room. Scooping up my glass, I settle back into my spot on the couch and am typing in my passcode when Todd bumps my knee as he resumes his spot on the couch. This time, he’s sitting a little closer than he was before.
“If you’d rather watch something else, we can.”
Looking at him confused, I don’t respond but his eyes glance to my computer and the realization of what
he’s saying hits me. “Oh! No, I had a flash of a scene for my book. If I don’t get it down, I will likely lose it the minute my head hits the pillow. Although, now that you’ve offered—”
“Nope. We’re watching another episode.” Todd reaches for the remote control and brings the show back to life. Although he proclaimed his reasons for recording the show, he doesn’t fast forward through the beginning. I assume it’s to allow me enough time to do my thing.
I quickly tap out my notes and close my laptop. Settling into the corner of the couch, I bring my feet up and turn to my side, resting my head on the back cushion. The next four contestants are all talented and the judges get into a few heated battles attempting to sway the contestants their way. I think the debates among the coaches may be my favorite part of this show. Well, and the in-depth stories they feature. Cue the tears.
“That right there is one talented youngin’.”
Lifting my head, I furrow my brow and ask, “What’s with the accent?”
“I need to perfect my southern accent in case I need it for a book. It’s why I like Blake so much.”
Shaking my head, I chuckle before taking a sip of my wine. It’s been a long time since I’ve just hung out and did nothing but simple conversation, a glass of wine, and mindless television. I’m always chasing a deadline or working on behind the scenes business stuff. I never take time to simply relax. That’s something I’ll need to change. Maybe not every night but at least once a week.
Turning my attention back to the screen, the young man speaking intrigues me. He’s about twenty years old, but his story is one of a man twice his age. Gah, this is the stuff that kills me and at the same time, inspires me. This young man is chasing his dreams. With all the cards stacked against him, he’s putting himself out there and trying. He doesn’t care if he gets all four chairs to turn for him or none do, he just wants his chance to show the world his talent.
He’s a risk taker. The parallels of what he’s saying and what I’ve been thinking of doing with my next book aren’t lost on me. I can take a risk. I need to take a risk. I’ll never know if I don’t try.
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