by Gigi Blume
I scratched Reeses, trying to think of a way to change the subject before Wyatt could swallow that big chunk of chocolate.
“I have a dog back home. In California.”
His brows rose.
“Lady. She’s an English Cocker.”
Technically Lady was my brother’s dog but she was just as devoted to me. She was the best dog in the world. I ran my finger on Reeses’ snout. “I think Reeses will like her.”
Wyatt smiled, his teeth covered in chocolate. “If she’s as sweet as her human, he won’t be able to resist her.”
9
Georgia
I had a headache, there was a distinct jabby feeling in my back, and my neck was so stiff I thought my head would snap off. Ah, the joyous pleasure of sleeping in a car.
I’d dozed off after a long, easy conversation with Wyatt. He had a lot of fun stories growing up in a large family. He reminisced about summers spent entirely in swim trunks eating apricots straight from the tree. And about the rope swing his grandfather tied on the branch of a sturdy oak in their yard. How he’d swing and swing for hours pretending to be a superhero, pushing off from the trunk to spin in wide circles. It seemed like a beautifully simple childhood. So different from mine. A whole other planet than the stark realities of Tinseltown, growing up the daughter and sister of two huge film stars. The busy schedules, the endless train of people wanting this and that. Superficial friendships. Hired drivers to take me to school. The gold-digging stepmother who singlehandedly sent my dad to an early grave. And the only thing my brother and I had left of our parents—a giant mansion. The big, lonely prison for two when Will shut the world away to protect me.
I twisted the ring on my finger. One last feeble attempt of my brother to keep the big bad wolf away from his little sister.
“Rise and shine, Georgia Peach.”
I looked over to find Wyatt folding those Native American blankets on the hood of the Mustang.
“Don’t worry. I slept in the backseat. Your honor is intact, milady.”
“Okay. Thanks?” Funny, the thought never crossed my mind. I opened the car door and crawled out.
“Oh, and your brother called. I gave him an update and promised I’d get you home for Christmas. He didn’t say much. He’s a man of so few words.”
“Yeah well, consider it a blessing.”
Wyatt stepped towards me, inching ever so close. The only thing separating his body from mine was the car door. His eyes took me in, the disheveled mess I was, wild hair and morning breath included. I covered my mouth and stepped back.
“May I?” He inclined his head, holding out a hand for the blankets I used.
“Oh. Sure.” Derp. I handed him the blankets and he bounced back to his folding spot, whistling a happy working tune.
“Are you always this chipper in the morning?”
He flashed me a dazzling smile. “Ya know, I slept really well. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in forever. Maybe since I moved to New York.”
He went back to his folding, resuming his whistle song. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and twisted my neck around.
“You must have the most uncomfortable bed in the world if the backseat of a car is an improvement.”
“It’s the noise. I just never got used to it.”
He finished his folding and skipped along to the trunk to put them away. I went to the office where we’d left our bags, fished out my toothbrush and braved the scary bathroom, keeping the door cracked just a hair. Getting trapped in this bathroom was not the way I’d like to start my morning.
A short while later the mechanic arrived bearing two steamy coffee cups and a paper lunch bag. He had a rueful expression.
“My wife chewed me out last night.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Did you miss the pageant?”
“Oh, I got to the pageant on time. But later last night I told her about you guys staying here in the garage and she about flipped.”
Wyatt shoved his hands in his jeans. “Sorry, man. We didn’t mean to intrude—”
“She was so darn ticked off I didn’t invite you to stay at our house. I can’t figure her out. She practically carved me a new one the last time I had people over. I vowed never again. Then she pulls this guilt trip on me.”
“Well, she’ll be glad to learn Wyatt here slept like a baby, so no harm done.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded with a sense of relief. “I’ll let her know you said that.” He blew out a sigh. “Whew. Pregnancy hormones.”
Wyatt brightened at that. “Wow, another baby? I...I mean I saw the picture on your desk.”
“Yup. Number four and counting.”
“Awesome. I’m the oldest of six.”
The mechanic’s brows shot to his hairline. “Ya don’t say.”
Wyatt nodded proudly.
“Anyway,” the mechanic gave the paper bag and coffee cups to Wyatt. “My wife made you her famous breakfast burritos. Her secret is the kielbasa sausages.”
That sounded divine but I was definitely going on a pork fast after today.
“Thanks Claudio.” I gave him a little hug and went off to zip my new moccasins in my suitcase. I’d left a couple of Benjamins and a note in the trunk of the Mustang, making sure Wyatt packed his moccasins, too.
After we said goodbye at the bus station, Wyatt shook his head at me. “What gave you the idea his name was Claudio? Or even Franz for that matter?”
“Just a guess. I didn’t want to be rude and call him Hey You.”
“I told you it’s Al. His name patch, the sign on the auto shop, even the side of his truck says Al.”
I blinked at him. “I thought that was the name of the town.”
“Al, Nebraska? Really?”
A moment passed where I bat my eyes at Wyatt innocently and he gave me the I don’t buy it glare.
“Okay,” I caved. “The truth is, I’m terrible with names. So I make stuff up.”
“Seriously? Al has to be the easiest name in the world. There’s only two letters.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. Surely I wasn’t the only one who did that. Wasn’t that normal? “I like to use first names of famous composers. Franz Liszt, Claudio Monteverdi, etcetera. It’s usually only in my head, though.”
The corner of Wyatt’s mouth curled up.
“So what name did you give me?” he asked, eyes twinkling. It was the gold flecks catching the sunlight, probably.
“Wolfgang.”
He nodded, letting that thought bounce around a bit. “Okay. I’m gonna go get the bus tickets. What was the town we need to go to?”
“Avery?”
“Right. Avery. You remember that.”
I smiled proudly. “Oswald Theodore Avery. He’s a founding father. Of course I remember that.”
“Yeeeaaah. I’ll be right back.”
He took off, leaving Reeses with me, and returned a few minutes later, still laughing under his breath. “Wolfgang. Funny.”
If you say so, buddy.
“I’m not gonna call you Wolfie if that’s what you’re thinking. Wyatt is much more interesting.”
He gave me the side-eye. “Not sure if that’s a compliment, but thanks.”
He sipped the last of his coffee and winked. There was something refreshing about him. Perhaps it was his casual charm or the way his flyaway hair caught the sunlight, framing his face with an angelic glow. He was raggedy but confident in his own unique way. And that dimple. Oof.
A cloud of smoke billowed onto the bus platform. Down the way, an old monstrosity of a bus squeaked to a stop with a booming hiss, belching diesel exhaust. Large patches of rust covered most of the roof, corroding its way along the sides where the faded paint once displayed a patriotic red white and blue wave. Passengers piled on through both doors, carrying all sorts of parcels and bags. They certainly weren’t wasting any time.
“Surely that’s not our bus.”
Wyatt smirked at me. “How much do you wanna bet?”
/>
The driver came around the front and manually changed the destination sign to Avery.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding.”
Wyatt tossed his coffee cup in the trash and laughed. “Come on before all the good seats are taken.”
By the time we filed in behind half the population of Nebraska and all their cousins, Wyatt and I couldn’t sit together. It shouldn’t have made a difference to me but it did for some unexplainable reason. The lady occupying the seat next to me held a chicken on her lap. Wyatt had Reeses in that mesh travel bag and had to stand near the back. He had all his bags and the dog and held on tight to the metal bar while the bus lurched forward. I tried to take Reeses at one point but the chicken wasn’t having it, batting its feathers, clucking like a maniac. It was inside a cage, but seemed to smell my fear, those beady eyes staring me down.
Yes, as a matter of fact I did have eggs for breakfast, Chickaletta.
The bus rambled along the highway, clattering with a thunderous roar. One of the windows not too far from me was stuck open, poorly remedied by a square of cardboard and some duct tape. The cold air still seeped through. Among the cornucopia of smells, even rising above the lovely aromatic sulfur of the diesel engine, was the arresting odor of farm animal. Probably goat. I didn’t see any goats, nor did I hear the bleats of a goat, but there was definitely a goat on the bus.
I looked over at Wyatt. He threw me a silly grin trying to keep his balance. Admittedly, this chicken bus had certain advantages over New York’s transportation system. The absence of mysterious sticky pee smelling blotches for starters.
And really, things weren’t so terribly bad. I had a belly full of kielbasa burrito, we were on our way to Avery, it was two days until Christmas, and there was still a chance I’d make it to California by midnight if I could only get to an airport.
An elderly man with a long wiry beard made his way down the aisle at a slow pace, checking tickets. He wore a red tartan trapper hat and had a flush of pink on the end of his nose. He reminded me of a skinny corn-fed and wrinkly Santa Claus. Thirty-five minutes in and he was just now taking tickets. I wondered what he would do if there were any drifters on board. Halt the bus and throw them in the snow?
He approached, took the ticket from Chicken Lady and made a little rip before handing it back. Then he held out his hand to me without even making eye contact.
I pointed back at Wyatt. “My friend has my ticket.”
He frowned and moved on. So he was a skinny, wrinkly, not jolly Santa Claus. Ho ho ho.
Several minutes later, Wyatt’s voice reached my ears. His tone was heightened and agitated. I turned to see Unjolly Santa shaking his head while Wyatt waved his arms around. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it didn’t appear seemly. The old man said something back, pointing out the window.
Oh gosh. He was going to throw us out into the snow. Did Wyatt lose the tickets? Scenes from Polar Express flashed through my head. I pictured myself on the roof of the moving bus, flurries of snow catching in my hair, conversing with a ghostly hobo while drinking coffee from a sock.
Wyatt stumbled over to me biting his lip.
“What’s going on? Did you lose the tickets?”
“No, I have the tickets.” He pulled them from his pocket.
“What’s the problem then?”
He crinkled his nose, knit his eyebrows together, and said with a forced smile, “Funny story.”
10
Georgia
Reeses barked at the rusty old bus as it rumbled its way down the road, leaving us on the outskirts of a small town. At this point, nothing surprised me. Wyatt raked his fingers through his unruly locks before sliding his beanie hat back on.
“So...what do you wanna do for two hours?”
“Is slapping you an option?”
“I said I was sorry.” He paced back and forth, cursing under his breath. Then he pointed at his cheek. “Okay. Right here. Hit me with your best shot.”
He held that position while I pretended to take him up on it. I wasn’t about to slap him, for crying out loud, but letting him sweat it out wasn’t beyond me.
I lifted my hand and tapped him on the cheek. “I’ll take a rain check on that.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s not very encouraging.”
“How were you supposed to know the difference between a bus to Avery, Nebraska and Avery, Missouri? It was too confusing.”
“Yeah,” he rallied. “And if they’d checked our tickets when we boarded, we could have caught the right one.”
Reeses barked in solidarity. I bent down to scratch his little head. “You didn’t like that chicken bus, anyhow, did you Reeses?”
His tongue hung out. I took that as a no.
Wyatt squinted in the distance. There was nothing for miles in either direction. We weren’t even standing at a bus stop. But we were assured a bus would come along in a couple of hours, and that this was a regular stop on the route. A cluster of buildings, which we guessed, was a rural community sat about a quarter of a mile away from the highway.
Wyatt pointed that way. “Let’s see if there’s a cafe or something.”
“You’re not seriously hungry after that huge burrito.”
He shrugged. “I could eat.”
Unbelievable.
So we schlepped our luggage into town and ended up at a place called Burgers and Pies. At least that’s what the sign outside said. Wyatt had his camera out and clicked at everything he found interesting along the way. Although not what I’d call picturesque, the town did have a certain rustic appeal one can’t find in the coastal cities.
“My battery’s almost gone,” Wyatt said as we entered the diner. “I’m just going to ask if I can plug in my camera somewhere.”
“What about your phone?”
He slipped it out of his jeans pocket. “Nah, I’m good.”
We found a booth big enough for our bags, including Reeses’ carrier, which we snuck in under Wyatt’s coat. The poor dog was probably hungry by now even though he got some of our kielbasa scraps earlier.
Wyatt ordered a tall stack of pancakes and a side of chicken for Reeses. I had a glass of orange juice. As Wyatt devoured his second breakfast, sneaking bits of chicken to Reeses, he chatted merrily about what he wanted to see in California. He’d never been. He had idyllic visions of palm trees and sunny beaches and had plans to visit the Walk of Fame and the Hollywood sign. I just listened while he went on about it, not wanting to burst his bubble. Los Angeles wasn’t so exciting in real life. He talked with childlike wonder of his hope to randomly bump into famous actors in restaurants, and just rub elbows with Hollywood elite at coffee shops or something. I tried to hold back a laugh at that.
“What?” he said. “Are you telling me you’ve never met a celebrity in all your years of living in LA?”
Had I met a celebrity? Hilarious.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you laughed.” He took a big gulp of his water.
“I just don’t think Julia Roberts gets her lattes at the corner Starbucks, that’s all.”
Wyatt sat back and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure there are hot spots. Actors are people just like you and me. They don’t live like recluses. They go out.”
I smiled, thinking of that interesting restaurant where my future sister-in-law used to work. Lucas Lodge. How my brother would frequent that place just to be close to her. How she’d bring him the type of beer he specifically didn’t like just to mess with him.
How they fell in love without even realizing it.
I sighed with joy. “I suppose they do have to go out sometime.”
Wyatt fed some more chicken to Reeses before returning to his pancakes.
“You know what this needs?” He dipped into his backpack and came up with a jar of gooseberry jam from the auto shop.
“Oh my gosh, Wyatt. Did you sneak that in your bag?”
“No. Al gave it to us, remember?” He smeared a g
enerous glob on his pancakes and took a bite. “Mmmm. Oh wow. You gotta try this.”
I swished a bit onto my finger and tasted the jam, licking the residue from my bottom lip. “Yummy.”
Wyatt focused on my mouth for a long moment, a drop of jam dangling from his own.
“You’ve got a little...” I pointed at my mouth.
“Oh, thanks.” He ran a napkin over his lips, and dug back into his meal trying to hide the soft blush blooming across his cheeks.
After a minute he cleared his throat. “So, if you could have lunch with any celebrity, who would it be?”
What a weird question. I shook my head. “Nobody.”
“Oh come on. Who’s your celebrity crush?”
“I don’t have one.”
He chuckled. “Sure you do. How about Chris Pine?”
I spurted a half-laugh. “Ewww. He’s like a brother to me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Uh,” I sputtered. “I mean, he seems like the type of guy who’d be like, ya know, like a family friend. Like the friend of your brother or something. I don’t know.”
“I guess I can see what you mean. Natalie Portman is super pretty and all but she kinda looks like my sister. So crushing on her would be really gross.”
“Yeah. Like that.” I nodded.
“Emma Woods, on the other hand...” He whistled to complete his thought. “I don’t have a sister that looks like that!”
Alrighty then. I won’t be bringing that up to Emma when I see her at my brother’s wedding.
Wyatt wagged his brows. “So now that I’ve made my confession, it’s your turn. Every girl I know has the hots for some movie star or singer.”
“I’m not every girl.”
His breath hitched, the rise and fall of his chest more pronounced as he gazed at me in wonder. “No, you are not.”
That boyish charm, I tell ya.
I cast my focus down, thumbing the plastic edge of the menu, thinking maybe I’d go for one of those pies after all—just to have something to do besides obsessing over this guy I just met. I couldn’t bring myself to look back up at him. That dimple had a way of shooting right into my fluttery little heart. What was wrong with me? I learned my lesson with cute guys a while ago. Ya can’t choose a book by his cover. Or something like that.