Nerd Gone Wild

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “No. Mitchell.” She drew herself up, as if trying to look taller and more in control of the situation. She was still a foot shorter than he was, and still smashed. “I can handle a potty break on my own, thank you very much.”

  He sincerely hoped so. He’d hate to be forced to go in after her.

  “If s right down that hall, first door to your left. Can’t miss it. Says Women right on the door.” Rudy pointed toward the back of the bar. He’d also stood, and was gazing at her as if he wanted to walk her there.

  Ally flicked a glance over both of them and gave them a lopsided grin. “I can deal with this. You may both be seated.”

  “ Okay.” Rudy dropped back into his chair with a thud made the wood creak. “Don’t be long.” He gazed her with obvious adoration.

  As Mitch also sat down, he recognized a golden opportunity to institute his latest strategy. “Rudy, I need some help.”

  Rudy turned his head. “Sure thing. Here in Porcupine we help one another.”

  “It’s about Ally.”

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” Rudy smiled, displaying the between his teeth.

  “I’m crazy about her.” Mitch put on his most sincere expression. “I’m hoping we can work things out between us.”

  Rudy looked doubtful. “I don’t think she’s crazy about you, Mitchell. Sorry to have to tell you that, but she told me you were driving her crazy. But that’s not the same thing. In fact, it’s the opposite.”

  “I know. She’s upset with me. But underneath, I think she likes me a lot.”

  “You do? Then why did she tell me a while ago that she thought you were a dickhead?”

  Mitch winced. “Love and hate can be two sides of the same coin.”

  “Or sometimes hate is just hate. Like that guy who took Lurleen away. I can tell you that I sincerely hate him. There’s no love on the other side of that coin.”

  “So where is she?”

  Rudy shrugged. “Don’t know. I wish she’d come back, though. Now that Ally’s told me all about women’s orgasms and such, I can work with Lurleen on them multis.”

  “Maybe I could help you find Lurleen.” It might cost him some Internet long distance, but at least he might be able to get Rudy focused on a different woman. “What’s her last name?”

  “Engledorfer.”

  “That should make it a lot easier.”

  “If you could really find Lurleen for me, that would be great, ‘specially if you have dibs on Ally.”

  “Well, she doesn’t exactly know my intentions.” Now there was a true statement.

  “You mean she doesn’t know you’re crazy about her? Don’t you think you oughta tell her?”

  “Not yet. The timing needs to be right. So I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t say anything to her about our conversation.”

  Rudy nodded. “If you’re sure. Personally, I think you should say somethin’.”

  “I will. When the time’s right.”

  Rudy leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “But let’s make us a deal. If you tell her, and she doesn’t want to have nothin’ to do with you, and you find Lurleen, but she doesn’t want to have nothin’ to do with me, then can I go for Ally?”

  Mitch figured with all those contingencies he was safe. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that would be okay.”

  Chapter Four

  Ally couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such an excellent buzz going. Dirty dancing on the bar and flirting with a rough-and-ready guy like Rudy were the kinds of thing she’d always wanted to try, but as Madeline Jarrett’s granddaughter she hadn’t dared. Grammy would have been so embarrassed by that kind of behavior.

  Grammy’s embarrassment wasn’t a factor anymore, though, and Ally had enjoyed the hell out of busting loose. To think she owed it all to Mitchell. When he’d appeared, reminding her of all the restrictions she’d had back in L.A., something had snapped inside. Yes, it had taken three Irish coffees to get up her nerve, but she’d finally found her inner wild girl.

  As she washed her hands and looked at herself in the dingy mirror over the bathroom sink, she decided to give that wild girl a rest. Her hair was tangled and her face flushed and puffy. Besides, Mitchell was liable to gain some advantage over her if she didn’t stay sharp.

  A little food and she’d be fine. From what Rudy had told her, the Top Hat was also Porcupine’s best restaurant. Actually it was Porcupine’s only restaurant, but at least she was in the right place. She wasn’t up to plowing through snowdrifts looking for a bite to eat.

  Judging from the noise filtering through the bathroom door, the Top Hat was swinging into high gear. Apparently Porcupinians knew how to party. When she stepped into the hall, whistles and rhythmic clapping nearly drowned out the jukebox. And through it all, she could hear the staccato beat of tap shoes.

  At the entrance to the hallway she paused and glanced at the table where Mitchell and Rudy were sitting. Betsy was ensconced at the table with them. While “Clyde tap-danced on the bar to “Luck Be a Lady Tonight,” Betsy used both hands to beat a rhythm on the table while she wiggled in time to the music. Rudy was a half-beat off with his clapping, but to compensate he’d add an eardrum-piercing whistle every so often.

  Mitchell wasn’t clapping or whistling. He looked over and spotted her, then turned away, as if he didn’t want her to know he’d been keeping watch. Instead he acted as if Clyde’s performance and the bowl of un-shelled peanuts that had appeared on the table required all his attention. He didn’t go so far as to clap, though.

  Seeing the peanuts made Ally’s stomach rumble. Betsy and Rudy were tossing their shells on the floor, but Mitchell had a neat little pile in front of him. Ally shook her head. Poor Mitchell was so out of his element here. She wondered again why he’d come.

  His explanation was full of holes. Mitchell was efficiency personified, which meant he tied up loose ends like nobody’s business. In the four months since Grammy’s death, he’d quietly taken care of everything, barely needing Ally’s input. Yet when she’d announced her trip to Alaska, he’d suddenly come up with a bunch of issues demanding her attention—bogus things like whether she intended to take Grammy’s seat on the board of the Historic Lampposts Preservation League.

  He’d tried every conceivable argument to convince her to stay, from terrible weather reports to dire warnings about grizzlies hiding behind every tree. She’d told him the part about the grizzlies made her more eager to go, although bears were hibernating now. In the end, she’d left, because Mitchell had no power to stop her.

  But he’d followed her up here, and right away, too, as if his presence were absolutely required. She couldn’t figure it out, unless… he had a secret crush on her. She hated to think that was true, because she didn’t want to be forced to deal with it. But a secret crush was the only thing that made any sense.

  She was still just schnockered enough to ask him. Walking straight to the table, she quickly sat down before either Mitchell or Rudy could leap up and hold her chair.

  “Welcome back!” Rudy said with a huge grin. “Have some peanuts.”

  “Thanks.” She grabbed a handful. “Hi, Betsy.”

  Betsy smiled as she kept drumming on the table. “Hi, yourself.”

  “Enjoying Clyde’s performance, I see.”

  “Not so much. He’s a terrible show-off, don’t you think?”

  “I think he’s pretty good. A lot better than I was a little while ago.” Ally checked on Mitchell from the corner of her eye, looking for telltale signs of infatuation. She wondered how infatuation would manifest itself in a guy like Mitchell. Buying an open-ended ticket to Alaska was darned incriminating, she had to say.

  “Well, I suppose he has a sense of rhythm,” Betsy said grudgingly. “But I don’t know why he has to put on a demonstration all the time.”

  Probably because he wants to get into something belonging to you, Betsy. He thinks demonstrating his sense of rhythm will get you hot. “I think good rhythm is important,” Ally sai
d, hoping to help Clyde’s cause.

  “I suppose. Too bad he’s so full of himself.” Betsy continued to drum on the table and wiggle.

  Ally thought Betsy was a lot more interested in Clyde’s sense of rhythm than she wanted anyone to know. And as Ally listened to Rudy’s off-tempo clapping, she had new insight into why he might have lost his lady love. Bad rhythm could be extremely distracting. She couldn’t tell whether Mitchell had a sense of rhythm or not, because he was just sitting there.

  Or was he? Looking closer, she noticed that his forefinger was tapping, ever so gently, on the table. In perfect time. Well, now. Chalk one up for the giant Popsicle. And speaking of Popsicles, she admitted to mild curiosity about what size Mitchell was packing under those geeky pants he wore.

  That’s where four Irish coffees could land a girl, speculating about equipment she had no intention of using. But she did need to find out Mitchell’s intentions while she still had some Dutch courage left.

  After fortifying herself with more peanuts and deliberately throwing the shells on the floor, she turned to him. “Mitchell, lean over here a minute.” No point in humiliating the man in public. Between Clyde’s metal taps crick-cracking on the bar and the blare of the jukebox, no one would hear her if she kept the conversation low.

  “What?” Mitchell looked wary as he came closer.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to sock you in the jaw.”

  “That’s nice to know.” A glint of humor flashed in his brown eyes.

  He looked good with that glint of humor. It went well with the sensual shape of his mouth and his Dudley Do-Right chin. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Mitchell, do you have a thing for me?”

  He frowned and leaned closer. “A what?”

  “A thing,” she said, raising her voice a fraction.

  “What kind of thing?”

  She rolled her eyes. Mr. Smooth Operator he was not. She’d have to be more blunt. And louder. Nobody was listening, anyway. “Do you have the hots for me?” Too late she realized the music had stopped and her words had neatly filled that little dead space between the end of the performance and the start of the applause. That very explicit question of hers seemed to echo through the room as everyone turned to stare.

  Mitchell looked as if he’d been run over by Rudy’s Bronco, Slewfoot Sue. He swallowed. “Um…”

  Ally wanted to crawl under the table. If she hadn’t had so much booze, she might have done it. Poor Mitchell. He was a pain in the ass, but he didn’t deserve this.

  “Go on, ‘fess up, Mitchell,” Betsy said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I told you she’d guess.”

  Rudy touched Ally’s arm. “He’s crazy about you. Told me so when you went to the bathroom.”

  Ally glanced at Betsy and Rudy, astonished by this new piece of information. “He told you guys?”

  They both nodded.

  Oh, God. Mitchell must really have it bad if he’d confided in the first two people he’d met in Porcupine. How unbelievably awkward. She couldn’t be furious with a guy who’d impetuously followed his heart. She just wished his heart hadn’t led him to her.

  Mitchell cleared his throat. “Ally, I think—”

  “We have to talk. Alone.”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  And yet she had more pressing matters than public humiliation to think about. If they both went back to the Loose Moose to talk without getting any food first, she would be in terrible shape. “The thing is, I’m starving. I need to eat something, especially after four Irish coffees.”

  “Four?” His eyes widened.

  “Yes, four, and there’s enough mellow mood left over to get me through this unfortunate episode. I would suggest, however, that you have several more glasses of beer. You’ll be amazed at how that helps neutralize the shock.”

  He shook his head. “I just need to eat.”

  Betsy punched him on the arm. “Shame on you, Mitchell! You told me you didn’t want anything! I was ready to feed you leftover moose-meat pie and you turned it down!”

  Rudy groaned. “He turned it down? Can I have whatever you were plannin’ to give him?”

  “No, you cannot.” Betsy stood and pulled on her coat. “Mitchell, Ally, come with me right this minute. I’m going to warm up a hearty portion of my famous moose-meat pie.”

  Mitchell exchanged a look of dismay with Ally, and for the first time in their relationship, she felt a common bond. Neither of them was ready to face Betsy’s famous moose-meat pie. But they didn’t have a lot of choice, now that they’d both admitted they were hungry. If they turned down a chance to eat one of Porcupine’s greatest delicacies, they’d be outcasts.

  Mitchell might not care, but Ally did. She wanted to be accepted here, because this was where she intended to launch her career as a wildlife photographer. When she was an internationally famous photog, she planned to refer fondly to the tiny town of Porcupine, whose residents had taken her into their hearts. She didn’t want anything to screw with that.

  “Sounds wonderful, Betsy.” She stood and put on her jacket, knit cap, and gloves.

  Rudy stood, too. “How much pie you got, Betsy?”

  “Never you mind, Rudy. You’re not going over there with us. I can be discreet and retire to my private quarters, but you’d end up hanging around and ruining their private moment.”

  “No I wouldn’t. I’d just eat and leave. I haven’t had some of your moose-meat pie since before Lurleen left. And don’t forget, I’m the one who brought you the moose meat in the first place.”

  “Only because you were in the right place at the right time!” called out one of the other men. “Lucky son of a bitch, to come along right after that logging truck hit it.”

  Ally winced and snuck a peek at Mitchell.

  He stopped zipping his parka. “You mean this moose was… roadkill?” He looked somewhat green around the gills.

  “Very fresh roadkill,” Rudy said. “The truck didn’t even run over it. Just knocked it to the side of the road, neat as you please. Dented up the truck grille some, but the loggers are used to that.”

  “Doesn’t matter about the details.” Betsy pulled up the hood on her stoplight-red coat and tied the string under her chin. “Once I get my hands on moose meat, it becomes food for the gods. Now let’s move, people. I’m getting a hot flash.”

  Clyde hurried over. “You’re not really leaving, are you?”

  Ally heard the plea in his question. He’d hoped Betsy would hang around.

  Betsy glared down at him. “Why, yes, we are, Clyde. I wasn’t aware I was supposed to ask your permission.”

  “But… but you’re taking away two new paying customers. And I heard you say you’re going to feed them. I suppose you’ll stay over there and eat, too! So how’m I supposed to make a living if you do that, Betsy?”

  “Clyde, these two have recently experienced a humiliating moment, and they need some privacy. Can you be a little sensitive to that?”

  “Me?” Clyde got red in the face and drew himself to his full height of at least five-four. “You’re calling me insensitive? I put aside an excellent caribou steak for your dinner! And now you’re leaving!”

  “Did I ask you to do that?”

  “Yes, you most certainly did. This morning when I saw you over at Heavenly Provisions.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did, too.”

  “Did not. Clyde, I’m leaving now. Ally and Mitchell, let’s go.”

  “Did, too!” Clyde called after them. “Standing right by the smoked salmon on special!”

  Ignoring him, Betsy led the way out of the Top Hat. Ally had the presence of mind to grab her backpack from the corner where she’d stashed it before she followed Betsy out the door. At first Betsy blocked some of the wind, but once she moved away from the door, the arctic blast belting Ally in the face made her gasp.

  Ducking her head, she leaned into the wind.

  “Jesus!” Behind her, Mitchell came out the door
and it slammed behind him with a heavy clunk. “How does anybody stand this?”

  Ally wondered the same thing. The wind brought tears that froze to her cheeks. But she’d never admit to anyone, especially Mitchell, that she found the weather intimidating. This was her first full day. She’d get used to it. By next winter, she’d spit in the face of a wind like this.

  But not tonight. And not literally. Anybody who spit into this wind would get stabbed in the eye when that spit came back as an icicle. She’d never been so cold in her life.

  She’d be willing to eat roadkill moose-meat pie for the privilege of getting warm again. Even more significant, she’d be willing to end up in a kitchen alone with Mitchell if she were guaranteed a toasty place with zero wind.

  Ah, Mitchell. What a dork. She hated the idea of hurting the tender feelings of any human being, but Mitchell had to face facts. Despite his delectable-looking mouth and his sense of rhythm, despite the glint of humor that had made him seem semi-sexy for a split second, he was still Mitchell the Nerd. And she would never, ever, in a million, trillion years, be his main squeeze.

  * * *

  Mitch wondered what he’d done to deserve this—plowing his way through nut-numbing wind and snow so that he could dine on roadkill. He’d tried to live a decent life, pay taxes, contribute to charity, and support the Dodgers, win or lose. He recycled. He’d thought his reward for all that had been Madeline Jarrett hiring him. It appeared that, instead, he was being punished for some unforgivable transgression.

  He should be working on whatever story he planned to tell Ally once they were alone, but his brain was frozen solid. Madeline had made it very clear that he was not to reveal that he’d been hired to guard Ally unless her life was in immediate danger. A woman like Ally, Madeline had said, would hate the idea of a bodyguard and would sabotage his efforts if she knew about them.

  This damn weather was enough sabotage to deal with. If he had to live in a place like this—which would never happen, but say he was forced at gunpoint by aliens with superhuman strength—then he’d construct a series of heated tunnels between buildings so that he never had to go outside in the winter.