by Jan O'Hara
Praise for Jan O’Hara and Opposite of Frozen
"If O'Hara's next books are anything like this one, she's got a long career ahead of her." —Kirkus Reviews
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"What an entertaining, funny, sad, adorable romp Opposite of Frozen turned out to be. Since this is Jan O'Hara's debut book, just sign me up for whatever comes next from her talented mind." —RomanceIsAgeless.com
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"Smart, funny, and with a cast of quirky characters you're bound to fall in love with, Jan O'Hara's debut novel is a lively read... You'll pick it up for the reluctant romance … You'll keep reading for the intergenerational shenanigans..." —Liz Michalski, author of Evenfall
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"...a witty, delightful story about love and hope across the ages. I look forward to whatever Jan O'Hara writes next." —Therese Walsh, author of The Last Will of Moira Leahy
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"...an emotional, fun-filled escapade with memorable characters. ...will have readers clamoring to read more of this author's work." —RT Review Source
Opposite Of Frozen
A Thurston Hotel Novel, Book Two
Jan O’Hara
Tartitude Publishing
Contents
Also by Jan O’Hara
Opposite of Frozen
Dear Reader:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Cold and Hottie Excerpt
Books in the Thurston Hotel Series
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jan O’Hara
Fiction
Cold and Hottie
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Non-fiction
Author in Progress: A No-Holds-Barred Guide to What It Really Takes to Get Published (contributing author)
You Can Lead a Child to Broccoli: 20 Heartwarming plant-based recipes from a cold-hearted romance writer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Opposite of frozen ©️ 2016 by Janice O’Hara. All rights reserved. No part of this book may used or reproduced in an manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Tartitude Publishing, PO Box 92112 Meadow Brook, Edmonton, AB, Canada, T6T 1N1 or [email protected].
Epub edition ISBN-13: 978-0-9953012-2-1
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-9953012-1-4
Created with Vellum
Opposite of Frozen
Professional athlete Oliver Pike would do just about anything to help his struggling brother, even if that means setting aside his own career difficulties to take a busload of retirees on a multinational tour.
But trouble arises before they clear the Canadian Rockies, forcing the bus off-route and into a small town. And in the hold of the bus, amid the walkers and luggage, lies a half-frozen stowaway.
Once thawed, Page Maddux proves to be commitment-phobic, irreverent, and maddeningly attractive. She is also the person Oliver must rely upon to help keep the “oldsters,” as she calls them, out of harm’s way.
When their week together is over, will the town recover from the group’s exploits? And given Page’s tendency to run, what will become of Oliver’s heart?
Opposite of Frozen is a full-length standalone novel and combines the emotionality of a Kristan Higgins romance with the quirkiness of a Penny Reid. See why Kirkus Reviews said, “If O'Hara's next books are anything like this one, she's got a long career ahead of her.”
Dear Reader:
Last fall, with great enthusiasm and an initial veil of secrecy, I agreed to participate in a group writing project. Eleven authors would each write their own standalone contemporary romance, set in the fictional mountain town of Harmony, Alberta.
The town was created and populated by the extraordinary Brenda Sinclair. (Extraordinary because she was the project’s originator, continuity editor, and wrote two of the project’s twelve novels.)
So I had my fictional setting and some recurrent characters. I lacked only my hero and heroine.
And into the town strolled two people in desperate need of healing—one an inveterate wanderer, one a former pro athlete. Neither particularly liked the other. Each was determined to carry on with life as it existed before they met, thank you very much.
Fortunately for Oliver and Page, the universe had other plans in the form of Harmony and its citizens, as well as a literal busload of retirees. Boy, did I have a lot of fun with those retirees!
I hope you’ll enjoy watching Page and Oliver as they are pushed, cajoled, and challenged into becoming better versions of themselves. In the end, isn’t that what life asks of us all?
* * *
Warmly,
* * *
Jan O’Hara
www.janohara.net
For the ToolMaster,
because you’ve always believed.
* * *
For Molly and “Frank,”
because you held everything together
while this book came alive.
* * *
And for my own Nan,
gone from this world but never forgotten.
Chapter 1
Oliver had been fighting a sense of looming chaos, and winning, until they pulled the half-frozen girl from the cargo hold.
He’d left the hospital with enough time to load all fifty-one passengers from the retirement village, plus luggage, onto the tour bus in Edmonton. He’d refereed a dispute over the merits of the two Elvises by declaring the King the winner, naturally. When mechanical troubles stranded them on the side of the road for hours, and far from the prebooked luncheon restaurant, he’d sprung for pizzas from the nearest town. He led the retirees in a rousing version of 99 Bottles of Bran on the Wall, reasoning that camp songs were as likely to work for the gray-haired as the young. He hadn’t even broken a sweat when one of the elderly ladies informed him, quite seriously, that he might be young and handsome, but his humor was perverted and condescending.
Then came the moment at the hotel in Harmony, when he was coaxing Mrs. Williams down the first of the bus’s steps.
Ninety-five-year-old Mrs. Horton, one of the more mobile passengers, and therefore among the first to disembark, tapped him on the shoulder with her cane.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Oliver said, and dug deep for patience.
Mrs. Horton had come at him from his blind side, which always rattled him. And her cane, with its icepick end, came close to scraping his glasses. Besides, why was she here, troubling Oliver, instead of taking full advantage of the rest stop? They had a long drive ahead to reach the hotel in Golden.
“Better hustle your fanny,” Mrs. Horton said. “Bus driver’s got a half-froze gal back there.”
“It’s February,” Mrs. Williams said, and if anything slowed her descent. “I’m cold. You’re cold. Everybody’s cold.”
Mrs. Horton had begun to hobble away, but at this pronouncement, she paused and rested both hands on the handle of her cane. She fixed Oliver with a baleful eye. The pink, knit flower at the front of her cap quivered with what had to be indignation, since Parkinson’s wouldn’t have the gall to inflict itself upon her.
“Now I’ve done my job on account of I’ve delivered the message. If you want her all the way dead, guess that’s up to you.” She turned away.
It took a moment for the words to compute. When they did, Oliver fastened Mrs. Williams’s hand to the railing, abandoning her on the lowest step of the bus. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Unacceptable.” Mrs. Williams sputtered. “I’m in urgent need of the biffy.”
“Young man,” called one of the Hofstadter twins from behind Mrs. Williams.
Was that Mavis or Avis? Oliver hadn’t sorted them out yet.
“Young man, where are you going? We’ve been stuck in this contraption for hours. Now we’re just supposed to stand here?”
A small crowd had gathered near the back end of the bus, where they had stored items requiring rapid access. Oliver pushed through, being careful not to bowl anyone over. All they needed was for someone to break a bone.
He climbed over a sea of discarded walkers and canes to get to the bus driver. Buck lay on his belly, his head and torso inside the cargo hold, giving Oliver an eyeful of uniformed legs and backside.
Oliver dropped to his knees and performed a lousy version of the Marine crawl, so as not to bang his head on the bus’s innards.
In the diesel-scented gloom, a large child—no, woman?—lay curled on her side in a nest of clothing. She wore a child’s unicorn hat. Buck’s meaty hand shook her shoulder in an attempt to rouse her, but only had the effect of stirring her hair as it lay in a curtain across her face.
“Miss? Wake up, miss.” Buck turned towards Oliver. “I don’t know what she’s doing here, Mr. P. I can’t think how she would have gotten in.”
“That’s a conversation for later.” Oliver shucked his gloves. The first priority was to determine whether he should call for the ambulance or coroner.
He pushed her hair back off her face. In the gloom he could see her eyes were closed and she was so pale she almost glowed. In contrast, her lips were a dark blue.
Something tickled at the back of his memory. Could carbon monoxide be responsible? He slid two shaking fingers under the collar of her puffy jacket to skin that was scarily cold. She had a pulse, thank goodness. Weak and slow, but a pulse nonetheless.
“She’s alive,” Oliver said. “Let’s keep her that way.”
It took a few minutes, and before it was over, Oliver banged his head hard enough to feel nauseous, but between the two of them they worked her out of the hold.
As he stood, bracing her in his arms, first her unicorn hat fell off and then a stocking cap, revealing dark hair striped with cobalt blue.
In the fading sunshine, she looked older than he’d thought. Mid-twenties, maybe. Old enough to know better than to sneak aboard an unheated space during a Canadian winter. In his arms, she felt as light as her down-filled jacket.
“Oh, my,” one of the tour group said, pressing in closer. “A stowaway. How exciting.”
“Someone likes stripes.”
“And horns.”
“That’s my unicorn hat,” came from another. “That was in my suitcase for my granddaughter.”
Which explained the nest of clothing. At some point, the stowaway must have rifled through the accessible luggage, looking for ways to stay warm. Why in hell hadn’t she called for help? Oliver closed his eyes. Perhaps she had, at that. Had she lain there, freezing to death in pizza-scented air, while they sang cheeky drinking songs?
The orange-haired Hofstadter twin had found her way off the bus and now muscled her way toward him.
“Let me through, people. I’m a nurse.” Her voice had a volume and pitch calculated to convey authority, and the seniors obediently parted. Upon arrival, she repeated Oliver’s actions searching for a pulse, looking a thousand times more competent than he probably had. She nodded briskly.
They were joined by the blond twin. “Why, it’s the girl from the pharmacy in Edmonton,” she exclaimed. “She helped carry my bags to the bus. I thought she left. She even said goodbye.”
Making it a good five hours she’d spent in the hold. Oliver wanted to groan. He nodded toward the girl’s mouth. “Please tell me that’s lipstick,” he said to the nurse.
She swiped a gloved finger over the stowaway’s face and flashed a grin of triumph. “Yup. Our girl has a Goth sense of fashion.”
As if the nurse’s pronouncement had flipped a switch, the figure in his arms stirred. Her lashes opened, revealing a pair of unfocused eyes the color of wet spring leaves. She began to shudder, as if she’d swallowed an unbalanced washing machine.
Oliver had to shift her to avoid dropping her.
“That’s a good sign, lovey,” the nurse cooed to the stowaway. “You just keep that up. Shivering raises the body temperature.” She trained a laser-like gaze upon the waiting hotel, its sandstone exterior a glowing rose color in the setting sun. “Right. Time to get her warm.” Her voice whipped forth once again. “Make way, people. We have to get her inside.”
* * *
✽
“Draft a few stronger men to get the others off the bus,” Oliver said, to an anxious-looking Buck. Then Oliver followed the nurse, conscious of the blond twin trailing behind like a pale shadow.
The nurse cut a brisk path towards the entrance, and activated the assisted doorway. Oliver had an impression of a well-appointed lobby with an old-world feel before the nurse halted at a bank of chairs.
“You.” She addressed a woman who vaguely resembled Betty White, and who wore a dark fur coat with a queen-like air. “Are you familiar with the hotel? I need immediate access to a room with a bed.”
The woman took one look at Oliver and his burden before rising smoothly. “We’ll use my suite.”
A large-eared man wearing a bellhop uniform had been advancing upon them.
“Gill, the elevator,” she called to him.
He headed for the call button.
“Wait,” Oliver said. “Can we use that?”
The bellhop’s gaze followed the direction of Oliver’s, to an empty luggage rack, and then bounced back to Oliver. Oliver saw him take in the group’s absence of luggage, Oliver’s burdened arms, and Oliver’s intent. Gill’s face instantly assumed the bland expression of the professionally polite. “Of course, sir.”
His expression didn’t alter while he helped Oliver sit and pivot, so Oliver could place his back to the rack’s cross bar. They maneuvered the shivering woman until she lay in Oliver’s lap, his arms and legs wrapped around her to keep her extremities safe.
But as they were wheeled onto the elevator, Oliver could see what Gill was thinking—what they were all thinking—and knew the familiar sting of shame.
Look at the biceps on that guy. Look at his tan. Why doesn’t he just carry her instead of acting like a wimp?
The thing was, especially when you had years of baseline fitness behind you, health challenges didn’t necessarily result in a fragile appearance. And in Phoenix, you only had to be breathing to acquire skin color.
The others piled into the elevator.
Only then did Oliver realize the enormity of what they were doing. “Shouldn’t we call 911, or whatever you people have up here?” Oliver said.
The nurse looked over her shoulder, the one visible eyebrow raised. “Shouldn’t you know how to summon help before taking elderly tourists to the Rockies?”
Oliver opened his mouth, but what could he say that was defensible? This isn’t my usual job. I was gang-pressed into helping at the last minute. That was true, but while waiting on Shawn in the hospit
al, Oliver should have asked the important questions. If he’d gone into a game with such lackadaisical prep, Smithy would have benched him for half the season.
The girl in his arms stirred. “No…” She appeared to be having trouble making her mouth form words. “No, nnnnnno hospital. Nnno doctors.”
With a ding, the elevator announced they had arrived at the top floor. The fur-coated lady led the way, then the twins while the bellman pushed Oliver forward.
He still wasn’t convinced he was doing the right thing.
But the stowaway was getting better, wasn’t she? Oliver could call 911 from the room as easily as the lobby. Besides, she might sound like a drunken monkey, but she’d gone from unconscious to conscious to opinionated in minutes—in no time at all, she’d be acting like a normal female.
The Betty White lookalike stopped in front of a door and swiped a keycard in the lock, standing back to let the nurse in first.