by Gigi Blume
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.”
CHAPTER TEN - 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 at 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.”
Unbeliveable.
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 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 generous 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.
I’d known Jorge Wickham for years and still c
ouldn’t read between his devilish lines. He took advantage of my trust. How could I possibly think I knew anything about Dog Man?
“Georgia.” Wyatt’s voice was shaky. Tentative. I still didn’t look up. “I...um.” He faltered and I saw him scratch his day-old stubble in my pereferal vision. I’d noticed his scuff earlier and his little habit of running his hand over it. It kinda made my body react in a delightfully weird way.
“It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours, huh?”
“Yeah.” I looked up then, fixing my gaze on the sheen of his whiskers.
“Feels like we’ve known each other for a lot longer, though. Right?”
“Lots has happened,” I agreed, ripping off a piece of his pancake. That really was delicious jam.
“So true.” The slightest hint of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But despite the circumstances, I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”
“Me too.”
His whole face brightened and his grin widened, those dazzlingly white teeth almost blinding. ”When we get to LA, do you think...maybe...”
He was cut off by the loud ping of his phone. He had it on the table next to his plate and it lit up with a text message.
“Is that my brother?”
He swept up the phone and typed a quick reply under the table before tossing it on the seat.
“Uh, no. Just my contact in LA.”
“Oh. Is it about your ‘top secret’ news story?” I teased him with air quotes.
“Yeah.” His expression darkened with just a flash, then he cleared his throat and took a sip of water.
“What were you saying before? About when we get to LA?”
He bit his bottom lip, chewing on whatever words he was about to say. For the first time, he looked right into my soul and reached across the table, wrapping his fingers around my hand. Shivers bolted up my arm and sped to my chest. I felt all glowy.
Then, two deafening blows cracked in my ears, shaking right through me. Wyatt felt it, too because he cringed at the sound and scrunched his shoulders.
“What the—“
This was followed by some screams and movement at the other side of the restaurant. A strung-up looking guy climbed on top of a table with a gun in his hand. Another guy had a gun on the restaurant manager.
“This is a robbery.” Table robber guy waved his gun around. People gasped and ducked. “Hands up where I can see them.”
Some of the diner patrons were too shocked to respond, so he repeated himself, screaming at the top of his lungs. “I SAID, HANDS UP.”
I immediately shot my arms in the air. Wyatt tossed his head around. Both robbers were out of earshot so he whispered. “Psst. Your ring.”
“What?” I whispered back.
“Take your ring off.”
“Why? It’s fake.”
“They don’t know that. You want your finger cut off?”
Somehow I doubted the robbers would produce a machete out of their back pockets, but I took the ring off anyway, just in case. I slipped it in the seat cushions. Shostakovich’s piano concerto no 2 would be a little tricky to play with a missing a ring finger.
Most of the victims were silent. One lady was sobbing. The robbers barked some orders for the kitchen staff to come out and lie on the floor. They wanted anyone not in a booth to lie on the floor. Classic robbery protocol.
“Wallets and purses out, people. Put them on the table and no one gets hurt.” The guy on the table jumped down, swiping up everything in sight.
The other guy had the manager empty the cash register. “Hurry up, old man.”
Wyatt shifted in his seat, like he was winding up to do something heroic. I flashed him a warning look.
Don’t even think about it.
He leaned over to tuck Reeses’ carrier under the table, and in the process, his cell phone slipped off the seat onto the floor with a clank.
“What’s going on over there?” The table guy came over. “You hidin’ somethin’”?
He pointed the gun at Wyatt. Wyatt didn’t flinch. Was he used to guns in his face or was he just stupid? I thought I might hyperventilate.
“Where’s your wallet, tough guy?” The veins in the robber’s neck bulged out.
“In my back pocket.” Wyatt was cool. Samuel L. Jackson cool. But really not cool at all, if that makes sense.
“Well, hand it over.”
Oh my gosh. Today was not a good day to die. My brother would kill me all over again.
Wyatt half-laughed. “Seriously? A scene out of Pulp Fiction? Not very creative of you.”
“Who cares about creativity at a time like this?” I cried. “Give him your wallet.”
“Listen to your lady, dimwit.”
“Don’t call me a dimwit,” Wyatt said through clenched teeth.
“For goodness sakes, Wyatt. Give it to him. It’s just money.”
He flashed me a hard stare. “Says you.”
Whoa.
Table robber didn’t know what to do. The other guy was screaming at him to just shoot already. A dining patron cried out to Wyatt not to be an idiot. Actually, idiot wasn’t the word he used. The sobbing lady was wailing for mercy. Reeses barked from under the table.
“Is that a dog? You got a dog under there?” The guy ducked to look, still pointing his gun at Wyatt. Reeses growled.
Wyatt glared coldly. “Yeah. Don’t make me put him in kill mode.”
Oh my heavens. We were dead for sure.
The robber laughed. His friend laughed. I wanted to disappear. Plus, my arms were getting tired.
In a flash, the robber fisted Wyatt’s shirt, pulled him from the booth, punching him right on the jaw. The other guy cursed and shouted they should hurry up and get out. The sobbing lady screamed. Everyone else gasped. Chaos ensued.
And Wyatt blacked out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN - WYATT
They took everything. Our luggage, my phone, my wallet. Everything except Reeses, and Georgia’s fake diamond ring. I came to with a bag of ice on my face. The first thing I saw was Georgia’s pointed scowl. A few other people stood over me to make sure I wasn’t dead. Perhaps dissatisfied I wasn’t, they walked off, shaking their heads.
Georgia frowned and crossed her arms. “Oh good. Now I can tell you off.”
I rubbed my tender jaw. This should be fun.
“Reeses. Where’s Reeses?”
“He’s in the kitchen getting spoiled.”
I peeled myself off the floor and sat on the edge of the booth. “Did the thieves get away?”
She waved her arms at the carnage of overturned tables and chairs. The gum ball machine was a pile of broken glass and scattered gum balls on the floor. The pastry display was a sad, squishy mess.
“If you mean did the robbers get so angry because of you they wrecked the place and took all our stuff? Then yeah.”
“Because of me? You’re not blaming this on me.”
She moved her hands to her hips. The Wonder Woman pose. My sisters used it on me. Worked every time. “What is wrong with you? Do you have a death wish?”
“No.”
“Then why? Whyyyy did you insult the guy who was aiming a gun at your face?”
“Because he was ridiculous.”
Her jaw hung open as she attempted to form words. Instead, grunts came out of her throat that sounded something like Kuh. It was still adorable coming from her. Dangit.
“It wasn’t a real gun.”
“Oh? And how do you know that?” she stuttered. “Are you a gun expert?”
“I know a paintball gun when I see one.”
It took a moment for understanding to dawn on her face. She blinked a few times then came back with, “You still could have gotten hurt. It was pointed at your head.”
“I was willing to take my chances.”
“For a few bucks?” she cried. “Those guys were dangerous. They could have bludgeoned you.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Says the guy who got knocked o
ut in one punch.”
“It was a fierce uppercut.” I moved my jaw around. No missing teeth as far as I could tell.
“You are impossible. Seriously, I can barely tolerate you right now. In fact, I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. I envy people who haven’t met you.”
Her words punched a hole in my gut. It was more painful than the fist to my jaw.
“I couldn’t let those simpletons take our luggage. Our traveling money.”
“Who’s the simpleton? You are. You’re worse than a simpleton. You’re a moron. I don’t care about the stuff. It’s nothing. It’s not worth what you did.”
“That’s easy for a poor little rich girl to say. Why don’t you call your daddy and ask for more money?”
That stopped her right there. But the shadow that fell over her face and the sleazy feeling on my skin made me wish I could take it back immediately. Dimples formed on her chin. Her nostrils flared. Her fists formed into tight balls, knuckles white with fury.
An apology was on the tip of my tongue but something stopped me from speaking. Perhaps it was the sting of her insults.
She took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, looking down on me with such disdain, I was certain I’d turned into slime on toast. With a swift sweep of her hand, she plucked up the gooseberry jam and stormed off.
I slunk in the booth, burying my face in my hands. That’s when I noticed my empty plate.
“Those blockheads ate my pancakes.”
I shrugged on my coat and went to check on Reeses. He was where Georgia said he was—in the kitchen. The cooks had given him a plate of ribs. He was so happy he didn’t even acknowledge me when I walked in. The cooks served me up some dirty stares, though. At least they didn’t kick me out.
One of them nodded towards the rear exit with a pointed look. I followed his gaze and pushed through the flimsy door. There was Georgia outside in the freezing air, sitting on a milk crate. Fuming. She was so hot with rage, the atmosphere around her was its own weather system. But her eyes, when they landed on me were cold as ice.
“Do you want to cash in on that face slap?” I said with a sorry attempt at humor.
“Go away.”
“You’re right. I am a moron.”