“Ms.,” I corrected automatically and his clear gray eyes came back to me.
It had also dawned on me, at this juncture, that he had a strangely attractive voice. It was deep, very deep, but it wasn’t smooth. It was rough, almost gravelly.
“A Ms. Sheridan.” He cut into my thoughts and emphasized the “Ms.” in a way that I thought, maybe, wasn’t very nice. “She’s lookin’ for keys.”
I waited for this Slim person, who I suspected was Mr. Andrews the absent caretaker, to explain to this amazing-looking man that I had a confirmed two-week reservation, prepaid, with a rather substantial deposit in the rather unlikely event of damage. And also I waited for this Slim person to tell this amazing-looking man that there obviously was some mistake and perhaps he should vacate the premises so I could unload my car, put away the perishables, have a shower, talk to Niles, and, most important, go to sleep.
“Yeah, you fucked up,” the amazing-looking man said into the phone and then he concluded the conversation with, “I’ll sort it out.” Then he beeped a button and tossed the phone with a clatter on the counter and said to me, “Slim fucked up.”
“Um, yes, I’m beginning to see that.”
“There’s a hotel down the mountain ’bout fifteen miles away.”
I think my mouth dropped open but my mind had blanked so I wasn’t sure.
Then I said, “What?”
“Hotel in town, clean, decent views, good restaurant. Down the mountain where you came. You get to the main road, turn left, it’s about ten miles.”
Then he handed me my papers, walked to the front door, opened it, and stood holding it, his eyes on me.
I stood where I was and then I looked out the floor to A-point windows at the swirling snow. Then I looked at the amazing but, I was tardily realizing, unfriendly man.
“I have a booking,” I told him.
“What?”
“A booking,” I repeated, then explained in American, “A reservation.”
“Yeah, Slim fucked up.”
I shook my head. The shakes were short and confused. “But I prepaid two weeks.”
“Like I said, Slim fucked up.”
“With deposit,” I went on.
“You’ll get a refund.”
I blinked at him, then asked, “A refund?”
“Yeah,” he said to me, “a refund, as in, you’ll get your money back.”
“But—” I began but stopped speaking when he sighed loudly.
“Listen, Miss—”
“Ms.,” I corrected again.
“Whatever,” he said curtly. “There was a mistake. I’m here.”
It hadn’t happened in a while but I was thinking I was getting angry. Then again, I’d just traveled for seventeen-plus hours. I was in a different country in a different time zone. It was late, dark, snow was falling, and the roads were treacherous. I had hundreds of dollars worth of groceries in my car, some of which would go bad if not refrigerated, and hotels didn’t have refrigerators, at least not big refrigerators. And I was tired and I had a head cold coming on, so I could be forgiven for getting angry.
“Well, so am I,” I returned.
“Yeah, you are, but it’s my house.”
“What?”
“I own it.”
I shook my head and it was those short, confused shakes again.
“But, it’s a rental.”
“It is when I’m not here. It isn’t when I’m home.”
What was happening finally dawned on me fully.
“So, what you’re saying is, my confirmed booking is really an unconfirmed booking and you’re canceling at what is the absolute definition of the very last minute?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m speakin’ English. We do share a common language. I’m understandin’ you.”
I was confused again. “What?”
“You’re English.”
“I’m American.”
His brows snapped together and it made him look a little scary, mainly because his face grew dark at the same time. “You don’t sound American to me.”
“Well, I am.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, and then swept an arm toward the open door. “You’ll get a refund first thing Monday morning.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“This is… I don’t… you can’t—”
“Listen, Ms. Sheridan, it’s late. The longer you stand there talkin’, the longer it’ll take you to get to the hotel.”
I looked out at the snow again, then back at him.
“It’s snowing,” I informed him of the obvious.
“This is why I’m tellin’ you, you best get on the road.”
I stared at him for a second that turned into about ten of them.
Then I whispered, “I can’t believe this.”
Then I didn’t have to wonder if I was getting angry. This was because I knew I was livid and I was too tired to think about what I said next.
I shoved the papers in my purse, snatched up my grocery bags, walked directly to him, stopped, and tilted my head back to glare at him.
“So, who’s going to refund the money for the gas for the car?” I asked.
“Miss Sheridan—”
“Ms.,” I hissed, leaning toward him, and then I continued. “And who’s going to refund my plane ticket all the way from England where I live but my passport is blue?” I didn’t let him respond before I went on. “And who’s going to pay me back for my holiday in a beautiful A-frame in the Colorado mountains, which I’ve spent seventeen-plus hours traveling to reach, traveling, I might add, to a destination I paid for in full but didn’t get to enjoy at all?” He opened his mouth but I kept right on talking. “I didn’t fly over an ocean and most of a continent to stay in a clean hotel with nice views. I did it to stay here.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen to me. I’m tired, my sinuses hurt, and it’s snowing. I haven’t driven in snow in years, not like that.” I pointed into the darkness, extending my grocery-bag-laden arm. “And you’re sending me on my way, well past nine o’clock at night, after reneging on a contract.”
As I was talking, his face changed from looking annoyed to something I couldn’t decipher, and then suddenly he grinned and it irritated me to see he had perfect, white, even teeth.
“Your sinuses hurt?” he asked.
“Yes,” I snapped. “My sinuses hurt, a lot,” I told him, then shook my head again. This time they were short, angry shakes. “Forget it. What do you care? I’m too tired for this.”
And I was. Way too tired. I’d figure out what I was going to do tomorrow.
Then I stomped somewhat dramatically (and I was of the opinion I could be forgiven for that too) into the night, thinking this was my answer. This was the universe telling me I should play it safe. Marry Niles. Embrace security even if it was mostly boring, and deep down if I admitted it to myself, it made me feel lonelier than I’ve ever felt in my life.
Paralyzingly lonely.
Who cared?
If this was an adventure, it stunk.
I’d rather be sitting in front of a TV with Niles (kind of).
I opened the boot and put the bags back in and when I tried to close it, it wouldn’t move.
This was because Unfriendly, Amazing-Looking Man was now outside, standing by my car, and he had a firm hand on it.
“Let go,” I demanded.
“Come back into the house. We’ll work somethin’ out, least for tonight.”
Was he mad? Work something out? As in, he and I staying in the A-frame together? I didn’t even know his name and, furthermore, he was a jerk.
“Thank you,” I said snottily. “No. Let go.”
“Come into the house,” he repeated.
“Let go,” I repeated right back at him.
He leaned close to me. “Listen, Duchess, it’s cold. It’s snowing. We’re
both standin’ outside like idiots arguing over what you wanted in the first place. Come into the damned house. You can sleep on the couch.”
“I am not going to sleep on a couch.” Then my head jerked and I asked, “Duchess?”
“My couch is comfortable, and beggars can’t be choosers.”
I let that slide and repeated, “Duchess?”
He threw his other hand out, his gaze drifting the length of me as he said, “Fancy-ass clothes, fancy-ass purse, fancy-ass boots, fancy-ass accent.” His eyes came to my face and he finished firmly. “Duchess.”
“I’m American!” I shouted.
“Right,” he replied.
“They don’t have duchesses in America,” I educated him.
“Well, that’s the truth.”
Why was I explaining about aristocracy? I returned to target.
“Let go!” I shouted again.
He completely ignored my shouting and looked into the boot.
Then he asked what I thought was insanely, “Groceries?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “I bought them in Denver.”
He looked at me and grinned again, and again I thought it was insanely before he muttered, “Rookie mistake.”
“Would you let go so I can close the boot and be on my way?”
“Boot?”
“Trunk!”
“English.”
I think at that point I might have growled but being as I was alarmed at seeing only red, I didn’t really take note.
“Mr.…” I hesitated, then said, “whoever-you-are—”
“Max.”
“Mr. Max—”
“No, just Max.”
I leaned toward him and snapped, “Whatever.” Then demanded, “Let go of the car.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” I bit out. “Seriously. Let. Go. Of. The. Car.”
He let go of the car and said, “Suit yourself.”
“It would suit me if I could travel back in time and not click ‘book now’ on that stupid Web page,” I muttered as I slammed the boot and stomped to the driver’s-side door. “Idyllic A-frame in the Colorado Mountains, not even bloody close. More like Your Worst Snowstorm Nightmare in the Colorado Mountains.”
I was in the car and had slammed the door but I was pretty certain before I did it I heard him chuckling.
Even angry, I wasn’t stupid and I carefully reversed out of his drive, probably looking like a granny driver, and I didn’t care. I wanted out of his sight, away from the glorious yet denied A-frame, and in closer proximity to a bed that I could actually sleep in, and I didn’t want that bed to be in a hospital.
I turned out of his drive and drove a lot faster (but still not very fast) and I kept driving and I didn’t once look into my mirrors to see the lost A-frame.
Adrenaline was still rushing through my system and I was still angry as I think I’d ever been when I was what I figured was close to the main road but I couldn’t be sure and I hit a patch of snow-shrouded ice, lost control of the rental, and slid into a ditch.
When my heart stopped tripping over itself and the lump in my throat stopped threatening to kill me, I looked at the snow in front of my car and mumbled, “Beautiful.” Then I went on to mumble, “Brilliant.”
Then I burst out crying.
* * *
I woke up, or at least I thought I woke up.
I could see brightness, a lot of it, and a soft, beige pillowcase.
But my eyeballs felt like they were three times their normal size. My eyelids actually felt swollen. My head felt stuffed with cotton wool. My ears felt funny, like they were tunnels big enough to fit a train through. My throat hurt like hell. And last, my body felt leaden like it would take every effort just to move an inch.
I made that effort and managed to get up on a forearm. Then I made more of an effort and pulled my hair out of my eyes.
What I saw was a bright, sunshiny day out of the top of an A-frame window through a railing. I could see snow and lots of it and pine trees and lots of those too. If I didn’t feel so terrible, I would have realized how beautiful it was.
Cautiously, because my stuffed-up head was also swimming, I looked around and saw the loft bedroom from the A-frame Web site.
“I’m dreaming,” I muttered. My voice was raspy and speaking made my throat hurt.
I also needed to use the bathroom, which I could see the door leading to in front of me.
I used more of my waning energy to swing my legs over the bed. I stood up and swayed, mainly because, I was realizing, I was sick as a dog. Then I swayed again as I looked down at myself.
I was in a man’s T-shirt, huge, red, or it was at one time in its history. Now it was a washed-out red. On the left chest it had a cartoonlike graphic of what looked like a man with crazy hair madly playing a piano over which the words “My Brother’s Bar” were displayed in an arch.
I opened up the collar to the shirt, peered through it, and stared at my naked body, save my still-in-place panties.
I let the collar go and whispered, “Oh my God.”
Something had happened.
The last thing I remembered was bedding down in the backseat of the rental, having covered myself with sweaters and hoping someone would happen onto me somewhat early in the morning.
I’d tried unsuccessfully to get the car out of the ditch and, exhausted and not feeling all that well, I’d given up. I’d decided against walking in an unknown area to try to find the main road or happen onto someone who might just be stupid enough to be driving in a blinding snowstorm. Instead, I was going to wait it out.
I also suspected that I’d never get to sleep, not in a car, in a ditch, in a snowstorm, after a showdown with an unfriendly but insanely attractive man. So I took some nighttime cough medicine hoping to beat back the cold that was threatening, covered myself with sweaters, and bedded down in the backseat.
Apparently, I had no trouble getting to sleep.
Now I was here.
Back at the A-frame.
In nothing but panties and a man’s T-shirt.
Maybe this was My Worst Snowstorm Nightmare in the Colorado Mountains. Weird things happened to women who traveled alone. Weird things that meant they were never seen again.
And this was all my fault. I wanted a time-out from my life. I wanted an adventure.
I thought maybe I should make a run for it. The problem was, I was sick as a dog and I had to go the bathroom.
I decided bathroom first, create strategy to get out of my personal horror movie second.
When I’d used the facilities (the bathroom, drat it, was fabulous, just like in the photos) and washed my hands, I walked out to see Unfriendly, Amazing-Looking Man, otherwise known as Max, ascending the spiral staircase.
Like every stupid, senseless, idiotic heroine in a horror movie, I froze, and I vowed if I got out of there alive I’d never make fun of another stupid, senseless, idiotic heroine in a horror movie again, which I did, every time I watched a horror movie.
He walked into the room and looked at me.
“You’re awake,” he noted.
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
He looked at the bed then at me. “Called Triple A. They’re gonna come up, pull out your car.”
“Okay.”
His head tipped to the side, he studied my face, and he asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“You don’t look too good.”
Immediately a different, stupid, senseless, idiotic feminine trait reared its ugly head and I took affront.
“Thanks,” I snapped sarcastically.
His lips tipped up at the ends and he took a step toward me.
I took a step back.
He stopped, his brows twitching at my retreat, then said, “I mean, you don’t look like you feel well.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I lied.
“And you don’t sound like you feel well.”
“This is how I sound normally,” I l
ied, yet again.
“It isn’t how you sounded last night.”
“It’s morning. I just woke up. This is my waking-up voice.”
“Your waking-up voice sounds like you’ve got a sore throat and stuffed nose?”
I kept lying. “I have allergies.”
He looked out the windows and then at me. “In snow?” I looked out the windows, too, and when he continued speaking I looked back at him. “Nothin’ alive in the ice out there that’ll mess with your allergies, Duchess.”
I decided to change the topic of conversation. However, I was becoming slightly concerned that I was getting light-headed.
“How did I get here?” I asked him.
His head tipped to the side again and he asked back, “What?”
I pointed to myself and said, “Me”—then pointed to the floor—“here. How did I get here?”
He looked at the floor I was pointing to, shook his head, and muttered, “Shit.” Then he looked back at me and said, “You were out. Never saw anything like it. Figured you were fakin’.”
“I’m sorry?”
He took another step toward me and I took another step back. He stopped again, looked at my feet, and then for some reason grinned. Then he looked back at me.
“I waited a while, called the hotel to see if you’d checked in. They said no. I called a couple others. They said no too. So I went after you, thinkin’ maybe you got yourself into trouble. You did. I found your car in a ditch, you asleep in the back. I brought you and your shit to the house. You were out like a light, dead weight.” His torso twisted and he pointed to my suitcase, which was on a comfortable-looking armchair across the room, and then he twisted back to me. “Put you to bed, slept on the couch.”
I was definitely getting light-headed, not only because of being sick but also because of what he just said. Therefore, in order not to fall down and make a right prat of myself, I skirted him, walked to the bed, and sat down, or, if I was honest, more like slumped down.
Then I looked up at him and asked, “You put me to bed?”
He’d turned to face me. His brows were drawn and he didn’t look amused anymore.
“You’re not okay,” he stated.
“You put me to bed?” I repeated.
His eyes came to mine and he said, “Yeah.”
I pulled at the T-shirt and asked, “Did you put this on me?”
Kaleidoscope Page 37