Page 27 of Shame the Devil
She was still buzzing, was what it was. She’dtriedto do the “sitting on the bed and reading a book” thing, but she couldn’t sit and couldn’t sleep. She headed to the lobby, then changed her mind and went back to the bar.
In her yoga pants. And her moccasins. Working out Blake’s two weeks’ notice. But she had as much right to be here as anyone else. Besides, the best-looking guy she’d seen in a long time—besides Blake, who didn’t count—had bought her dinner tonight and smiled and flirted. She wassurehe’d flirted. Hadn’t he? He’d held herhand.
Of course, he’d held her hand when he was trying to make her feel better about being terrified of large animals and other methods by which to die in the wilderness, which was possibly not the same thing, but never mind. She’d just make sure, when they had breakfast with the guys and did that skiing tomorrow, that she made it clear by her manner that she was expecting absolutely nothing. That shewantednothing, which should be easy, because it was the truth. She also couldn’t ski, which she was fairly sure meant that somebody would have to hang back and wait for her, presumably attempting not to look impatient about it. That person wouldn’tbe Dyma, because Dyma’d barely managed not to look impatient about it today. She sure wasn’t going to do it tomorrow, when she was skiing with the bison shifter. Also, Jennifer suspected she was older than Kris, and a guy like that was …
Sitting at a table in the bar with a blonde and a brunette, was what. Both of whom were thin, and neither of whom was in any possible way wearing yoga pants.
OK. That was back to Plan A, then. Calling her grandpa.
12
Harlan Lies
Harlan’s planwasn’t working out too well.
He was in a bad mood. Normally, he still had to be charming even when he was in a bad mood. Kinda went with the territory, at least to him. He was a fortunate guy with a fortunate life, the fans filled the seats and paid the rent, and he didn’t need to feel like a dick.
Which was why he still had to be semi-charming, even though he wasn’t being himself. To tell himself he wasn’t a dick. Because although he didn’t care about his dad’s party at the dealership, everybody was going to show up on Sunday to tailgate on the frozen prairie and then watch the Super Bowl in his high-school gym, and he wasn’t going to be there. He’d said he would, they’d be setting up folding chairs and big screens tomorrow, he was backing out, and hedidowe them. He might not owe his dad, but he owed them.
The brunette was saying, “I swear, you look exactly like Harlan Kristiansen. Are you sure you’re not just messing with us?” She did some hair-flicking for good measure. She had very nice hair.
“Really?” he said. “I’ve gotten Chris Hemsworth before, but I’ve got to be honest here, this Harlan guy feels like a big ol’ step down. I never heard of him, and it’s kind of a redneck name anyway, isn’t it?”
“You do look like Chris,” the blonde, whose name was Mandy, assured him. “But you don’t have the accent.”
The brunette—Melissa—said, “Excuse me? Actor? He could have a different accent. But he’s notanyHemsworth.” She was clearly sad about it. Chris Hemsworth was smart enough not to trap himself into an isolated lodge in the middle of a howling storm, though, and Harlan was willing to bet every other Hemsworth was, too.
“Nope,” he said. “I just sell farm equipment, sorry.” He wasn’t going to ask what they did. Being a non-dick was one thing. Making conversation was another. He was going to sit here, put out farm-equipment, boring-guy vibes, and if that didn’t work, pull out his phone and start actively ignoring them.
Which was when he saw Jennifer. She’d changed clothes and was holding a big book, but it was definitely Jennifer.
He suddenly realized that all she needed was blue eyes, a clap of the hands, and a “Time to get on the rug for Circle Time!” and she could’ve been his kindergarten teacher.
Ms. Flowers had been his first crush. He’d made her a huge Valentine over which he’d labored for about an hour, involving doilies and construction paper and glitter and glued-on candy hearts and possibly the words, “I love you.” At the end-of-year assembly, as his classmates never tired of reminding him, when it was his turn to talk, he’d burst out with, “My favorite part of Kindergarten is Ms. Flowers, because her name is a flower, and she smells like a flower, and she’s as beautiful as a flower.” It had brought down the house, apparently.
He’d had good taste, though. Ms. Flowers had been hot.
He was thinking it, but he was also rising from the table, grabbing his drink, and telling the women, “Excuse me, ladies. My girlfriend’s here.”
They looked confused, possibly because his “girlfriend” had just turned around and headed out the door again, but he couldn’t worry about that. He went after her and called out, “Hey. Jennifer.”
She turned, clearly reluctantly, and now,hewas the one feeling like the unwanted pursuer. He said, “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“I just came down to make a phone call.” Her voice was stiff, and so was her posture.
“And read your book. I get it. Who takes a vacation at a place where you can’t even walk around the block and find a coffee shop?” He scratched his jaw, tried a smile, and said, “Or come down to the bar without some idiot pushing to join you?”
“Oh.” Now, she looked flustered. Ms. Flowers had never looked flustered. He kinda liked flustered, though. She held the book across her breasts and said, “I don’t need company. You’re fine. I needed to call my grandfather anyway.”
“That’s one I haven’t heard before.” He sighed. “I swear, I’ve got the most unfortunate taste in women.”
She looked up fast, startled, and he said, “Seems I only like the ones who are trying to chase me off. What’s up with that?”
“Imposter syndrome,” she said, quick as you like. “You don’t want to belong to any club that would have somebody like you as a member.” And when he shouted with laughter, she added, “Nope. That’s not it. That is so clearly not it, I cannot imagine what could be less it. You’d found company. It’s allowed. What, you feel responsible for me because I bruised my butt when you knocked me over? I can barely feel it.”
“Nowthat’sa lie,” he said. “I saw how you sat down earlier. Bet you’re stiffening up some, too. Want to stand up at the bar with me and have a drink?”
“You’ve got a drink.”
