The Man Most Likely

by Cindi Myers

  Bryan knew what it was like to be judged on appearances or first impressions. Too many people still saw him as a ski bum. Now that he was trying to take his life in a new direction, he was finding out how hard it was to change others’ expectations. In his case, their judgment made him want to try harder to prove the skeptics wrong; maybe Angela needed more time to get to that place.

  “All right.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead, then backed away, out of the car. Any more time in her arms and he wouldn’t leave at all.

  FROM SUNDAY THROUGH Wednesday, Angela alternately congratulated herself for not rushing into anything and berated herself for being a coward. This inability to fix her feelings in one direction infuriated her. She was not an indecisive person. At her business and at the theater, she never had trouble choosing a course of action and following it. She was a strong, mature, sensible woman.

  Then Bryan walked into her life and every insecurity and weakness she thought she’d long since outgrown came welling up again, like instant adolescence. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she woke up some morning soon with a bad case of acne and a burning desire to hang a poster of a young movie star on her wall.

  What had she been thinking, telling Bryan she needed more time? More time for what? To convince herself that the feelings she had for him were real and would last? To persuade him that the two of them together would be a mistake?

  But how could that kiss be a mistake?

  He’d caught her by surprise at the party. When his lips first touched hers, she’d thought maybe she was hallucinating. Something in the wine had induced this too-vivid fantasy and in a moment she’d come to her senses and realize Bryan hadn’t kissed her, he’d merely leaned over to pick a stray bit of artichoke dip off her blouse.

  But no, he really was kissing her—a hot, luxurious kiss that touched every part of her. Even the memory of it could have thawed ice. This wasn’t an ordinary first kiss, tentative or clumsy or casual. It was a heat-seeking missile of a kiss, and it had definitely found its target with her. This was a kiss that said I’m really into you in bold, capital letters.

  But hadn’t she thought the same about Troy? That he was really into her? That he meant it when he said he loved her?

  She’d been so sure of her feelings for Troy—sure enough to accept his proposal of marriage, willing to change her whole life because he’d said he loved her. And in the end she’d been so wrong.

  Bryan said he believed in finding the one right person. The concept of soul mates was alluringly romantic. All a woman had to do was find the right person as a partner and all her problems would be solved. Some mystical element—fate or destiny or whatever it was called—would keep her and her lover together without any real work on their part.

  Right. That had to be a bigger fairy tale than the one about geese who laid golden eggs or dwarves who did all the housework.

  Every relationship took work to get to the happily ever after. The secret was finding a partner to work with you, not against you. Was Bryan that kind of partner, or just another handsome face who would leave her when the sizzle wore off their attraction? People were fond of assuring others that when true love came their way, they’d know. As if love could be measured like the soft-boil temperature of candy or the doneness of cake. But how much could you know? How sure could you be? Really.

  Right now all Angela knew was that Bryan made her feel giddy and vulnerable and not at all like herself. She knew she wanted him, but she also knew she didn’t want to be hurt by him.

  WEDNESDAY, ANGELA JOINED Max, Casey, Trish, Zephyr and Bryan in the alley behind Max’s snowboard shop to work on their Flauschink float. Bryan’s boss from the hotel stopped by briefly. He studied the twin-size brass bed they’d borrowed from the prop department at the theater. “We don’t have brass beds at the Elevation Hotel,” Carl said.

  “It’s not meant to be an actual bed from the hotel,” Bryan said. “It represents the idea of coming to the hotel to spend a night.”

  Mr. Phelps’s frown didn’t relax. “And you say you’re going to have a young man and woman in their nightclothes, chasing each other around the bed? Isn’t that a bit risqué?”

  “Old-fashioned nightclothes,” Bryan said. “It’ll be funny, not off-color. You’ll see.”

  “Perhaps we should use an actual bed from the hotel, with no people,” Carl said. “I suppose the banner’s okay.” He looked to the banner Zephyr and Max had painted: Wake Up From Your Long Winter’s Nap at the Elevation Hotel.

  “Carl! Dude!” Zephyr put his arm around the hotel manager’s shoulder. “What you’re suggesting is great, but it’s too subtle and sophisticated for this audience. You’re aiming for the Bergman film festival crowd. Flauschink is more Three Stooges retrospective. Humor is the way to go here.”

  Phelps looked stunned, but whether by Zephyr’s sudden chumminess or his breath, Angela couldn’t be sure. “So you don’t think people will get the wrong idea if we have the man chasing the woman around the bed?” he asked.

  “Sometimes I’ll chase Max instead,” Casey spoke up. “It’ll be an equal opportunity float.”

  “People will love it,” Bryan said. “They’ll remember it. And that’s what we want, right? For them to remember the Elevation Hotel next time they need a place to stay, for themselves or for friends or relatives.”

  Carl’s expression relaxed. “All right. I suppose it will be okay. But keep it tasteful.”

  “We will,” Bryan said. Everyone nodded solemnly, though Angela wondered if tasteful was quite the way to describe Max’s long underwear with the flap in the back.

  While Bryan was busy saying goodbye to his boss, and Zephyr and Max covered the base of the trailer with a paper skirt, Angela stuck close to Trish and Casey, making up the bed and decorating it with crepe paper streamers and flowers. Casey had borrowed a bearskin rug from the Chamber of Commerce offices and they spread this alongside the bed, tacking it down with carpet tape to keep it from blowing away.

  When they were done, Casey plopped onto the bed. “This is pretty comfy,” she said, lying back.

  “Oh, yeah.” Max stretched out beside her, then rolled toward her. “Maybe Phelps is right. Maybe this is a little risqué.” He started nuzzling her neck. She squealed and pushed him away.

  “None of that, kids.” Zephyr hopped up onto the trailer and shook his finger at them. “Save it for after the parade’s over.”

  “What are you going to wear as your costume?” Trish asked Casey. “Do you have long johns to match Max’s?”

  Casey grinned. “My costume’s a surprise.”

  “I hope it’s risqué,” Zephyr said. “Something to make Phelps’s eyes pop.”

  “That would be funny,” Bryan said, joining them. “I’d be laughing right up until he fired me.”

  “If he’s that much of a stick-in-the-mud, why would you want to work for him anyway?” Zephyr said.

  Bryan frowned at his friend, but said nothing. Angela wondered if Bryan’s sudden urge for respectability had caused tension between the two pals.

  “Help me tack this banner in place, Bry,” Trish said, breaking the staring contest between the two men.

  When the banner was in place, Bryan stepped back. “It looks good,” he said. “Thanks for your help, everybody.”

  Max hopped down from the trailer and clapped Bryan on the shoulder. “We’ll see you Saturday morning,” he said. “Just say a prayer it doesn’t snow. I don’t want to freeze off any valuable parts while I’m running around up there in my underwear.”

  “I’ve ordered good weather, just for you,” Bryan said.

  They exchanged goodbyes, and Angela gathered her things and prepared to leave. “Angela!” Bryan called as she turned away. He hurried to her side. “Are you leaving already?”

  “I have some things I need to finish up at the shop,” she said. A lame excuse, even to her ears.

  “I thought maybe we could go have a drink somewhere.”

  “That�
�s a great idea, but can I take a rain check?”

  The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Meet me after the parade Saturday, then. You’ll have time before you have to be at the theater.”

  “That’s a little early for a drink.” The Flauschink parade started at three in the afternoon.

  “We can have coffee. We need to talk.”

  She nodded. Yes. They needed to talk. Maybe between now and Saturday she could figure out what it was she wanted to say to him. “All right,” she said. “It’s a date.” An unfortunate choice of words, she thought as soon as they were out of her mouth. She didn’t want to imply that she and Bryan were dating or were a couple. As long as they were only casual friends who sometimes got together to do things, she could persuade herself her heart wasn’t in any real danger.

  Right. And Crested Butte’s snow wasn’t deep and chocolate wasn’t good and the world was flat as a pancake.

  Chapter Eight

  After days of Zephyr’s relentless ragging on him to attend the Flauschink polka ball, Bryan finally gave in and agreed to go. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do on a Friday night; Angela was babysitting, and so far she’d refused to go out with him anyway. He had their coffee “date” after the parade to look forward to. That was probably his last chance to persuade her that the two of them would make a good couple.

  “Dude, over here!” Zephyr, looking more like a polar bear with mange than a fierce abominable snowman, hailed Bryan as he threaded his way through the crowd at the Eldo Bar. Loud polka music emanated from the rear stage where a band played. Bryan pushed past a six-foot pink rabbit and a cowled Grim Reaper and made his way to the table where Trish and Zephyr sat with Max, Casey, Hagan and Maddie Ansdar and an assortment of single friends.

  “Great costume,” Maddie said, admiring Bryan’s black-and-white striped prison garb. He’d painted the stripes on faded-out khakis and an old sweatshirt, and added a plastic ball and chain from a novelty shop near the college in Gunnison.

  “It’s perfect,” Zephyr said. “Kind of a statement on your real life—a prisoner of capitalism, chained to your desk.”

  Trish elbowed him. Bryan ignored the dig, though Zephyr’s criticisms of his new lifestyle were getting old. Zephyr seemed to think this was a phase Bryan was going through, that he’d soon come to his senses and return to his carefree, slacker ways. That wasn’t going to happen and soon enough his friend would realize it—if they could manage to stay friends.

  “I see you’re giving everybody a preview of our float tomorrow,” Bryan said to Max, who was dressed in a pair of bright red, drop-seat long-handle underwear with colorful polka-dot and striped patches sewn on the backside and knees. Red-and-white socks pulled to his knees, sheepskin slippers and a three-foot-long striped stocking cap completed the outfit. “You look like a giant candy cane,” Bryan added.

  Zephyr made a face. “Ooh, dude, you’ve put me off peppermint forever.”

  Casey laughed. She wore a long quilted robe, a frilly cap and fuzzy pink slippers. “I don’t think even Carl would object to that outfit as risqué,” Bryan said.

  “You can’t even tell there is a woman under there,” Hagan said, his Norwegian accent still evident after years in the United States.

  Casey smiled sweetly, but said nothing.

  “How’s the job going?” Casey asked. “Has the hotel been busy?”

  “Pretty busy. I’m learning a lot. My first review comes up next month and I’m hoping for a raise.”

  “Then you can buy the next round,” Zephyr said.

  The hotel receptionist, Rachel, dressed as a Playboy bunny, complete with black fishnet hose, rabbit ears and a round, puffy tail, slinked over to their table. “Hey, Bryan,” she said. “Wanna dance with me?”

  “Thanks, but I just got here.” He reached for the pitcher of beer that sat at the center of the table and filled a cup. “I want to visit with folks for a while.”

  “I’ll dance with you, Rachel.” Eric Sepulveda, a local paramedic and ski patroller, stood at the other end of the table.

  “I’d love to, darling.” Rachel gave Bryan one last flirtatious look, then left with Eric.

  Bryan sipped his beer, but soon became aware of an uncomfortable silence around him. He looked up and found everyone staring at him. “What?” he asked.

  “Since when do you turn down a dance with a good-looking chick?” Zephyr asked.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to dance with Rachel because they work together,” Casey said. “Some businesses have policies about that.”

  “Stupid policy,” Zephyr muttered.

  “It’s not that,” Bryan said. “I’m just not interested in her.”

  “Who are you interested in?” Trish asked. “Or don’t you want to say?”

  Bryan looked away. He wasn’t about to confess his attraction to Angela in front of all his friends—not until he knew where things were going between them. Despite the amazing kisses they’d shared, she hadn’t been overly encouraging so far.

  “Bryan thinks he’s ready to settle down,” Zephyr said. “He’s looking for Ms. Right.”

  Bryan glared at his friend, who grinned back.

  “What about Angela Krizova?” Trish asked.

  Bryan almost choked on his beer. “What about her?”

  “The two of you seem to get along well together,” Trish said. “She’s attractive, with her own successful business and you’re about the same age. I could see you two together.”

  “Bryan and Angela?” Zephyr shook his head. “No way.”

  “Why not?” Bryan asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s not your type, dude.”

  Trish scowled at her boyfriend. “If you say it’s because she’s fat, you’re going to be sleeping on the sofa.”

  “Come on,” Zephyr said. “She is a hefty girl. And Bryan here always dates the hottest chick in the room. It’s like, evolutionary destiny or something.”

  “Evolutionary destiny?” Maddie asked. They all stared at Zephyr.

  “Sure. You know—the best-looking males and females get together to make the best-looking babies.”

  “Then how do you explain Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley?” Casey asked. “Or Rick Ocasek and Paulina Porizkova? Or Mick Jagger and Jerri Hall?”

  “Rock stars don’t count.” Zephyr smoothed the lapels of his jacket. “Women can’t resist our sex appeal.”

  “Money might have something to do with it, too,” Maddie said.

  “Guess I’m breaking all the rules,” Trish murmured.

  “I think Angela’s a good-looking woman,” Bryan said. “She’s smart and has a good sense of humor, too.”

  “Then why don’t you ask her out?” Casey asked.

  Bryan hesitated, then sighed. He might as well confess now—secrets didn’t last long in a small town. “I did,” he said. “She turned me down.”

  “You’re kidding.” Trish’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think she thought I was serious about wanting to date her.”

  “She’s crazy,” Casey said. “You’re a great catch, especially now that you have a good job.”

  “So, you only married me for my money.” Max grinned at her.

  “I married you for love,” Casey said. “But the money made you easier to love.”

  “I don’t think Angela cares about Bryan’s salary,” Trish said. “I’ll bet she’s just shy. Or she wants to make sure you’re serious.”

  “You mean she’s playing hard to get?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t think she’s playing a game,” Trish said. “She probably wants to be sure you’re really interested. She needs a little pursuing to prove you really want to be with her.”

  “Bryan’s never had to pursue a woman,” Max said. “They’re usually after him.”

  “This will be good for you,” Trish said. “It’ll give you an idea of what it feels like to be the one doing the chasing.”

  He n
odded. He’d been so hurt by Angela’s seeming rejection of him that he hadn’t considered things from her point of view. It was conceivable she thought he’d asked her out only to add to his collection of conquests.

  The band swung into a polka and Zephyr jumped up. “C’mon, Trish, let’s dance.”

  Max and Casey and Hagan and Maddie joined them, leaving Bryan alone at his end of the table. All around him, happy couples laughed and talked and danced, fueled by alcohol and the general atmosphere of freedom and fun that was Flauschink. Not that long ago, he would have been in the thick of things, living up to the costume he’d once worn that had declared him the life of the party. When had that life stopped being so much fun? Was it merely a matter of growing up and moving on, or was he responding to something deeper—an emptiness in his life, and in his heart, that another party couldn’t fill?

  Angela wasn’t merely someone to pass the time with until someone more interesting came along. He didn’t want to defeat her or collect her. He only wanted to be with her. If he had to work harder to convince her of that, so be it. Some things—like his dream of owning his own hotel or building a new kind of life for himself or Angela—were worth a little hard work.

  AS PROMISED, Saturday morning dawned sunny and clear. At two-thirty, the parade floats began lining up. Angela, dressed in her dumpy tweed suit and gray wig for the role of Lillian Troy, left Tanya at the Mountain Theatre float to check on Bryan and the others at the entry they’d dubbed Long Winter’s Nap. “How’s it going?” she asked Bryan. He and Max were adding more staples to the banner, one end of which had come unfastened during a windy night.

  “It’s going to be great, I think. Casey and Max are ready.”

  Angela waved to the couple on the float. Max stood beside the bed, adjusting his stocking cap. Casey was in the bed, the covers pulled to her chin. “What are you doing in bed?” Angela asked.

  “I’m cold,” Casey said. “This nightgown is a little drafty.”

  “Don’t worry.” Max grinned. “You’ll warm up when I start chasing you around.”