Page 137 of Story of My Life
I really needed to consider a vehicle with actual doors. I added it to my “Worry about Later” list and then got to work on my seduction outfit. One reasonably sexy high ponytail, a bodysuit that featured tasteful cleavage, and a pair of high-waisted slacks later, I deemed myself ready.
I was just wheeling my bike out of the garage when a peppy little electric SUV turned into my driveway. Darius leaned out of the driver’s-side window. “Thought I’d offer you a ride,” he called.
That would make a ride home from Cam less likely, which would significantly lower the chances of me having sex tonight. But at least I wouldn’t arrive at the meeting perspiring like a fever patient.
I hid my disappointment behind a cheery smile. “Sure, thanks!” I climbed in the passenger seat to find that my mayoral chauffeur was blasting a marching band drum line playlist that was surprisingly riveting.
“This is my hype music,” he explained, keeping the beat with his hands at a law-abiding ten and two on the wheel.
“You need hype music for a council dinner?” I asked.
“It’s more of an unofficial meeting to discuss unofficial business before we make everything official. With breadsticks,” he added.
With Story Lake’s rush hour being not a thing at all, we arrived at the lodge ten minutes early. I was happy to see more cars in the parking lot this time. While Darius went to check on the private room for our dinner, I stepped out onto the terrace and snapped a few stunning shots of the sunset over the lake.
I noticed a small group of women gathered around a fire pit on the far end of the patio. It looked as if they were passing around multiple bottles of wine and taking selfies.
I was just about to go back inside when I realized that all the women were suddenly looking at me.
“Oh my God, it’sher!” a woman with a thick Long Island accent and two bottles of wine in hand screeched.
They erupted like a flock of excited chickens, giggling and hurrying my way. I picked out Bronx and New Jersey flavors in the gleeful stampede.
“You’re Hazel Hart!” announced a blunt-bobbed woman with purple-tipped hair.
“It’s like we manifested her,” said a tall angular woman with ice cubes clinking in her wineglass.
“Uh, wow. Hi,” I said.
“We’re here because of you,” a third woman, this one in a sleeveless turtleneck and beanie, announced. “I’ve been a reader for years, and when I saw you ran away from everything to start over, I felt like you were speaking to my soul.”
“Really? Wow. Well, thank you,” I said.
“No! We need to thankyou,” the woman with dueling wine bottles insisted. “I picked up the first book in your Spring Gate series and devoured it in one sitting. Then I started on the next. And by the time I got my hands on the third?—”
“We decided to run away ourselves—for a long weekend—and come check out the place that inspired you to start a new book,” the woman in the beanie explained.
“And maybe also to catch a glimpse of those contractors you’ve got working on your place,” said the fourth woman, who was shorter than the rest with glossy black curls and divine taste in shoes. “Yummy!”
“Now, we did drive by your house, but I swear we weren’t creeping about,” Two Bottles confessed.
“We took a couple of selfies from the sidewalk, but that’s just for us. No sharing online,” the woman with ice cubes explained sternly.
“And we absolutely are not going to invite ourselves over because that would be super stalkery and you’re writing a new book, so you need to concentrate,” Good Shoes said.
“I appreciate that,” I said with a laugh.
“Would you hate taking a picture with us? The girls in the group will absolutely die,” Beanie asked.
“I’d be happy to. Uh, what group?”
“Hazel Hart Stans,” they said together.
“We’re on Facebook and we’ve got almost a thousand members, most of them since you announced your divorce, escaped New York, and did the whole fresh-start thing. Do you know how many times I’ve fantasized about packing a bag and hitting the road?” Two Bottles asked.
“I have no idea.”
“At least three times a week.”
