Oh, geez. Today had to be the day she did a trial run with the wart. Nice.
Erik Gunnarson consulted his dictionary a moment before responding. “All school children in Iceland study English. But I went to a village school. Our English teacher was taparen.”
She pulled a smile. Oh, she’d forgotten to darken her teeth today. At least there was that. Taparen? Was that like the Norwegian tapar? Loser?
Erik Gunnarson seemed to be staring at her teeth, and he smiled back at her. That smile. Lisette had to slide into a chair beside him or fall down. She ran a finger alongside her nose in hopes of dulling one of the age lines even the smallest degree. The makeup put twenty years on her, easily.
But wait. He’d called his English teacher from school a loser. She mulled this over as they made small talk. A guy who, in first meeting her, would immediately start describing other people as losers? Not nice. Not nice at all.
Lisette’s jerk-ometer started making that klaxon sound.
And suddenly, she relaxed.
Well, duh. Any guy this gorgeous, and flush enough with cash to hire a private language tutor, couldn’t possibly be nice. He’d automatically be forced to think of himself as God’s gift to women. Or to the business world. Or to Earth itself.
Which removed him instantly from her list of possibilities. Whoosh. Gone. And she didn’t have to think about the extra tuft of hair stuck with false eyelash glue between her eyes to make a monobrow.
Not that he’d been in the running for her list of possibilities, of course. He was a client. Well, not quite yet. She still had to ace this interview before they signed contracts. She’d better focus—and turn on a little charm. Because a guy who looked this good did not want to be seen in business meetings or even around town with Hideous Hilda on his arm if he also found her personality repulsive, no matter how expert her teaching skills might be. Lisette knew enough about men from Aunt Corky’s dews of wisdom distilled upon her to understand this.
“And you are Lisette? I can call you Lisette?” He flashed that knee-liquefying smile at her again.
“Most clients call me Lizard.” The minute it flew out of her mouth she wished she could suck it back in.
“Excuse me?” He flipped through his dictionary. “Eðla?” Then he chuckled, like it was some Icelandic in-joke she didn’t understand.
“But you can call me Lisette.” Usually she insisted on Fraulein Pannebaker, or Mademoiselle Pannebaker, etc., but because he asked, Lisette it was. He pronounced it with the soft “s” too, which she liked. Still, it didn’t negate his jerk status.
“I will be in United States six weeks to learn English.”
Six weeks! Six weeks was a long time. If he meant to hire her for the duration, it was a boatload of money. The price, if he didn’t negotiate down, would be about twenty dollars over the exact amount she desperately needed.
It was the longest term of contract she’d ever received. If he took it. Oh, please, please let him agree to the price. So very much rode on it. All her mom’s happiness, and Lisette’s own freedom, hung in the balance.
Her heart raced. With trepidation she named a figure. Erik did not even flinch. He was more than a Norse god—he was a godsend.
He paused a moment, choosing his words. “Please, Lisette, to help me.”
She nodded. He reached for the pen in her outstretched hand and signed the contract.
There was almost too much joy to be contained. Lisette was dying to go home and dance in her living room, but Erik hadn’t wanted to wait until tomorrow to start, so Lisette dug through her briefcase for the conversation guide she’d prepared for their first session. He kept talking to her in his broken accent. His voice was low and resonant, which almost rendered his mistakes inaudible. That, or Lisette didn’t care about them due to how incredible he was.
“I want to speak this English more good. I can do business in Iceland. And in Italy. And in Belgium. But I wants to do America now.”
As he spoke, Erik kept reaching over and placing his hand on her shoulder. Maybe it was an Icelandic thing. She should probably mind this. Touching had to be curtailed in formal American business practices. If he didn’t stop by the end of the six weeks, she’d let him know. For sure.
For now, she’d try to endure it as best she could. She was such a martyr.
Truthfully, though, she couldn’t afford to offend him. Besides, he seemed really nice, on top of being so nice looking. Oh, her duplicity was going to get her into trouble.
“Okay. Well, we can work on your English. Speaking it every day will help it improve. You’ll be surprised how fast. You have some good skills already.” She smiled at him, and he nodded. “Shall we begin?” She handed him the conversation guide.
He made a face.
“I am so sorry.” He looked genuinely sorry. Lisette got a tiny panic that perhaps he’d changed his mind already and was going to fire her. “I want to begin.” He grabbed his stomach as a pantomime. He was in pain. He was having a kidney stone. He needed gall bladder surgery. “But I am so hungry.”
Aha.
“Come with me.” She led him out to her car, the old college Corolla. Lisette was starving too. The trip to Hobby Lobby with Aunt Corky had eaten up her lunch hour. She climbed in, thinking how this routine was Plan A. Anytime a client needed to eat, she drove. She chose the restaurant without discussion, always the same place, a place that no one (she nor the client) could misconstrue as a date.
“Ah. McDonalds?” Erik asked as they pulled into the parking lot. At least she hadn’t driven through. “Americans eat here?”
“Yes. Many Americans.” Billions and billions served, right? She ignored his snobbery—another sign that he was a bad fit and definitely not dating material.
She explained slowly as she parked. “McDonalds is good practice, reading a menu and ordering. I will be by your side. You will give the order. Then you listen for the money amount, pay, and check your change. It requires many language skills. It’s a perfect starting lesson.”
“Oh, so this is lesson.” He nodded. “I cannot pay for your lunch. This is not a date?”
He seemed to know more English than she expected. “Exactly.”
The line stretched long with an entire Little League team, the Golden Thunder Monkeys (making noise commensureate with their team name), in front of them. Erik kept his eyes on the menu.
“What is this… McRib?”
“Umm, just stick with a hamburger or a chicken sandwich. McRib is not for the uninititated.”
“What is ‘uninitiated?’”
At last he’d ordered for them. She found a booth as far from the Thunder Monkeys as possible while they waited to be called. Could be a while. She dug in her purse and started looking through her game pieces, spreading them out on the table. It was McDonalds Monopoly season, and this was her year to win.
For sure.
“What is this?” Erik pursed his lips, as if trying not to smile at the fan of colorful chips of paper on the table. He slid into the bench seat close to her, lifting up the pieces one by one, inspecting them.
He scooted closer to her, so close she felt the heat of his leg running alongside hers, even through thick tights. Her heart raced. It was too much pheromone for her to handle.
In self-defense, Lisette slid an inch toward the wall. He smelled like soap, and it was even enough to delete the aroma of the oil of the French fry machine. He leaned over the papers, and she closed her eyes and breathed him just for a second. She needed to be professional, but he had a much smaller personal-space-bubble than she did. Bless him.
When he spoke, her eyes popped open.
“You have so many of these.” He held a green one up, then leaned in close to show her, his face so near as he examined it that she could see his phenomenally close shave. She’d never looked at a game piece so closely, and she wouldn’t mind looking at it all day. “But only one blue.” He slapped it down, and leaned back, a slight, mocking grin playing at the corner of his
mouth. She let out her breath. Wait a minute.
He was making fun of her.
“Hey. I only need Boardwalk, and I win a million dollars. Or, I only need St. James place, and I get a Big Mac a day for a year. And I’m one piece away—Marvin Gardens—from a paid vacation for four to Disneyworld.”
Erik reached for Park Place, the blue, which needed Boardwalk to secure the granddaddy of all prizes. He leaned into her again, his finger slowly drawing across the fine print. Her heart zinged.
“Lisette?” he whispered.
“Yes?” It came out breathy.
“You realize? Your chance is, how you say, infinitessimally small.” The distance between them seemed infinitessimally small. Her breathing got shallow.
“Mr. Gunnarson?” A disembodied teenage voice called from the front of the store.
“There’s our food.” His voice came out husky, and he stood to go.
She double blinked, then pulled back, straightening her fuzzy sweater and sweeping the pieces into a pile.
“So? I win things.” She called after him as he left for the counter. “I do.” She slid the pile into her hand and pushed them into the special compartment in her purse. “Do you know how many free yogurt parfaits I’ve already redeemed this year?” Eleven. But who was counting. She almost said it aloud, but bit it back. It sounded pathetic. She looked pathetic. He’d been so close to her, and then it probably occurred to him how hideous she was.
He came back with the food and sat down across from her. She should not feel this disappointed. Erik Gunnarson was a client.
“Mm. The hamburger is not bad,” he said through a mouthful.
Yelling erupted near the front of the store. Lisette turned around to look because it didn’t sound like Golden Thunder Monkeys—more like shrieking women and shouting men.
“Don’t look!” Erik leaned forward and clamped a hand firmly over Lisette’s eyes, but not before she saw something she could never unsee: six men wearing only ski masks and winter boots shoving their way past diners. Ew. Stupid college pranksters. It was the wrong time of year for a fraternity initiation gag, but it was always “drunken frat-boy loser” time.
Erik sprang to his feet then pressed on her shoulder. “Get down. I see they have guns.”
“Guns?” Lisette crouched instantly. Her mind spun through a thousand worries, mostly this: If Mom finds me dead in these clothes and this gross wig she’ll never have any peace the rest of her life.
Lisette peeked an eye over the booth. She couldn’t help it, safety risk or not.
“Everybody down!” the tallest nudist shouted. Erik got down, along with everybody else. The nudists went to the cash registers, and the tall one waved the gun, signaling a transfer of loot. “Put it in a Happy Meal box,” he commanded. “It’ll be our special prize.”
Some of the Thunder Monkeys started to cry. Their moms were putting hands over their eyes as the whole team cowered near Playland.
“Tell those kids to shut up!” the tallest one shouted again. “Better yet, grab one of them. Make an example of him. He can go for a ride with us.”
Audible gasps rose from the mothers, who now threw their hands over the Monkeys’ mouths, stifling them. This had gone from bad to worse in a hurry.
Lisette tried to reach for her cell phone to call the cops, but she knew the volume was set to high and didn’t want to risk the little baseball boys’ lives. Not for the petty amount of cash in a register drawer. She looked for Erik. At first she thought he’d jumped up in order to play the hero—like the Norse god he appeared to be.
But no. Hero, he wasn’t.
Silently he’d crept to the door, wedged it open and crawled outside.
Nice. Super duper nice. He’d left her to be shot by naked robbers. Her jaw dropped.
Oh, how did she meet such a concatenation of lowlifes? They came in assorted sizes and nationalities, but across the board they rated the same: incalculably low.
She rolled over on her back and looked at the McDonalds ceiling. It was made of some kind of black resin and had a reflective quality. Without moving she could see what was going on up front, as well as out through the window in the parking lot.
Oh, lah-di-dah. There, outside, was her date. Not that this was a date. It wasn’t. But he might as well have been—he was just her usual: International Man of Mystery was crawling on the ground and trying to open the door of a parked, empty car, an old model Buick with more rust than paint. Ew. Betcha anything that was the robbers’ ride.
“Hurry up, lady,” the robber yelled at the poor little cashier. But he didn’t use the word “lady.” Naturally. What was with people these days and their rude language? It was indicative of the great moral slide.
Oh, as was the fact her date (not her date) had climbed aboard the Buick and gotten it in gear, and was backing it out of its spot. What? This guy could hotwire?
Maybe Erik Gunnarson was dangerous. Maybe this was a client she should forget the contract with. Yikes. Double yikes.
Tensions rose at the cash registers. Three of the nudies had broken out in a fist fight with each other. The one with the gun was waving it, trying to break up the fight.
“But I want an apple pie. I told you the whole reason I was coming with you guys was for an apple pie. Get me one, or I’m ratting you all out to the cops.”
“You’re an accomplice, doofus.”
“Shut up. Quit calling me doofus. My name is Doug.”
Doug. His name was Doug.
“Get Doug a pie!” the tall guy in charge yelled. Poor little lady got him a pie. Bless Doug’s heart, he told her thanks, ma’am. Then they shoved each other one more time before dashing for the door.
At the door, the front one halted, and the others piled up behind him.
“Our car. Somebody stole our car!”
“That’s it. I’m calling the cops.” Doug had a cell phone in one hand and the apple pie in the other. Lisette had mistaken the phone for a gun earlier. Only the tall kid had a gun. “Nine-one-one? I’d like to report a stolen car.”
It only took about thirty seconds for the police, who were already a half a block away, to storm in and take down all five naked losers—and, blessedly, throw emergency blankets around all their unclothed parts. However, it took another three hours for the cops to interview all the witnesses and get everyone’s contact information.
Her food was cold. Too cold now. And Lisette never got her Super Size Dr. Pepper—the one with two game pieces on it.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gunnarson,” said an officer as things wound up. All the Golden Thunder Monkeys were released from their Playland jail at last. “Your quick thinking in moving their car bought us the extra seconds we needed to get here before it turned into a high speed chase through town. Property damage, danger to other drivers, kidnapping, all averted due to your help.”
“They left the car running,” Erik said in halting English. “I saw the, how you say, exhaust.”
“It took guts, knowing they had a gun.”
“I knew their gun was plastic. I have a similar one. I wanted to help.”
A hot wave of shame washed through Lisette for thinking of him as a sheer coward. And a hotwirer. She built a mental pedestal for him and set him on it. Huh. Not a jerk, after all. She stood up straight again and pulled at her sweater. The officer left, and her stomach growled.
“You need to eat.” Erik put a hand on her shoulder. “I need to eat. I do not want to eat McRib.”
No. Neither did she.
“I have something at home. And I need to take a meal to the neighbors tonight. Sorry.” The crock pot was bubbling on her counter, possibly not delicious, but a girl did what she could.
Her adrenaline waned, and she needed to put her feet up. These nurse shoes weren’t as comfortable as advertised.
Erik shifted his weight. Oh, yeah. He’d ridden with her.
“Uh, I could take you to your hotel, or wherever you’re staying.”
He brightened
for a moment then sighed. “Oh, no. I can call a friend.”
She waited with him for his friend to arrive. After all, he was a stranger in this country. She couldn’t very well abandon him at a McDonalds a crime scene. It wouldn’t be neighborly. Or professional—and she needed to keep this client and his payment.
“Don’t be so sad. Maybe you can get your Boardwalk tomorrow.” He chuckled.
“I’m just sorry you didn’t get to eat fried food because I’m so fried.”
“It is okay. I can eat with my friend.”
Just then, his “friend” showed up. And what a friend. She tore into the parking lot in a silver blur of convertible sports car and long black hair flying in a sleek curtain, the top down despite the end-of-winter chill. The diva made kissy lips at Erik as he strutted around to the passenger side and slid in.
Huh. Lisette tugged at her pioneer skirt and tried to push down the extra bulk at the stomach of her fuzzy pumpkin sweater. A gust of wind hit her face. It would have ruffled her hair if it hadn’t been this greasy fright wig glued to her head.
“Good night, Lisette Pannebaker. I will see you tomorrow,” he called just before Diva slammed the car in gear and squealed across the parking lot.
Lisette stood, slack-jawed, eating their exhaust as Erik Gunnarson tore out of her day as loudly as he’d torn into it.
Voices from the car floated over the air. At first she thought they were from the drive-through, but they weren’t. Despite her shock, she discerned them.
Diva: How did it go? According to plan?
Erik: Yes, and no. I will have to try more tomorrow.
Diva: She isn’t what I expected.
Erik: She’s even better than I expected.
And they roared out into traffic. He expected something? Something worse than this?
Tomorrow, no fuzzy pumpkin sweater.
“Today I want to shopping.” Erik strode into Lisette’s office wearing a light jacket. The harsh weather of the past two weeks that they’d been working together had abated, and it looked like spring might finally hit.
“Today you want to go shopping?” Lisette corrected his phrase. It seemed rude, she knew, but he paid her for it. He always took it well, and his skills showed marked improvement, even in just the few days she’d coached him. If pressed, she’d declare he was the quickest student she’d ever taught.
Immersed: Book 6 in The Ripple Effect Romance Series (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella) Page 4
