Page 56 of Story of My Life
I turned to her. “Do you want to do this? Because I’m starting to feel insulted, and when I feel insulted, the last thing I want to do is put my face on the line for the insulter.”
“Okay. Sorry! You’re not terrible at catching things.” Zoey didn’t sound very convincing, but she did unplug her phone from the charger on the nightstand. “Here. Catch.”
I misjudged her underhand toss and ended up bobbling the phone and the piano bench leg. Both landed on the floor with a resoundingthunk.
“And this is why I didn’t want to sacrifice my phone. I didn’t even have time to put the screen protector on it,” she said, stomping a foot on the mattress. She had such a reputation for losing and breaking so many phones that her former agency had stopped issuing her one.
I recovered both the phone and the leg and turned on the flashlight function.
Before I could chicken out, I ducked down and aimed the light inside. Besides a militia of dust bunnies, the fireplace was empty. I crawled in farther and shined the light up.
Zoey whimpered. “Oh my God. If this is how my only client dies, I’m never going to work as an agent again.”
Daylight streamed from the top of the chimney, and I relaxed. “It’s gone,” I assured her, backing out of the fireplace.
“Thank you. Now, gimme back my phone,” Zoey demanded.
I tossed her the device, and she caught it before swan diving onto the bed.
I slumped to the floor and tried to slow my heartbeat. We stayed that way in silence for a few long minutes.
“I assume you’ll be moving to a hotel today?” I said finally.
She held up her phone. “My reservation at the Story Lake Lodge is confirmed.”
“Great. I’m gonna go shower off the panic sweats,” I said, scraping myself off the floor.
“I’ll start breakfast,” Zoey volunteered.
The showerin my bathroom wasn’t pretty, but at least the water pressure was also terrible. I stood in the claw-foot tub and eyed the pink-and-black tile, the ebony toilet. The aesthetics weren’t great, but the storage in the double vanity, the linen closet, and the skinny built-in cabinet made me giddy.
I dried off with one of the threadbare towels from the closet, wrapped my hair in a second, and dragged my bag of toiletries into the room. In a burst of post-raccoon shower energy, I unpacked everything, delighting in the absolute gluttony of space.
Still enjoying myself, I applied a fresh bandage—without mustaches—to my bird-fish wound, dried my hair, completed my full skin-care routine, and even slapped on a coat of mascara.
I nodded at my reflection in the so-hideous-it-was-charming gold swan mirror. This was the New and Improved Hazel Hart, who showered and wore mascara and wrangled raccoons. I just hoped she also happened to write books.
I dressed in my new Story Lake outfit since the rest of my laundry was still in the ancient dryer in the basement, put on my glasses, and jogged down the back staircase. I had two staircases. And a house the size of several of my apartments. And an ugly kitchen.
Zoey was manically stirring what looked to be her second large cup of instant coffee. There were two bowls of instant oatmeal steaming on the laminate counter next to the ancient microwave.
“Nice outfit.” She pretended to shade her eyes from the glaringly yellow shorts and tee.
“Kitchen supplies and the rest of the stuff from my apartment, including my non-wine-soaked wardrobe, are coming tomorrow.” I grabbed a plastic spoon out of the pack.
“Strawberries and cream is yours. I deserve the chocolate chip,” Zoey said, surfacing from her coffee. “And please tell me that includes the buttface’s espresso maker.”
My ex-husband had been a snob about many things, coffee included. Which was why we had dedicated an entire corner of valuable real estate in our apartment to a coffee bar.
“It does, but I don’t know where we’re going to get espresso beans around here.”
“We’ll steal some from Cactus Cam next time he’s working at the general store,” Zoey suggested.
I gave my lumpy oats a stir. “Sure. Why not add larceny to the list of reasons that people here hate me?”
“Think of it as fodder.For your book,” she said pointedly.
My post-shower energy buzz waned as my anxiety sputtered back to life. I had to write. Starting today. And all I had was the vague idea to write down everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours but make it sexy and funny instead of mildly traumatizing.
