Love Far from Home Box Set

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Love Far from Home Box Set Page 11

by Lyon, Annette


  “Have a nice day.” She looked away, hoping that Worf/Mark would move to the next chair for his next date.

  He wasn’t so easily deflected. “Do you have a middle name? One that’s feminine? If so, might I suggest you use that instead?”

  “What’s wrong with my name?”

  “I could be wrong,” he said, in a tone that implied he’d never been wrong, “but having a man’s name might have something to do with why you’re single at your age.” He looked to his right, noticed Queen Amidala waiting for him, and sat before her.

  “At my age”? What’s that supposed to mean? At twenty-five, she wasn’t exactly in danger of becoming a crazy cat lady. She could have pointed out to that Worf/Mark might be single at his age because of toe-curling halitosis, glasses so big he looked like an insect, or the receding hairline above his plastic Klingon forehead. But truthfully, those things wouldn’t have been deal-breakers if he’d been a nice guy. He could have been the hottest guy on the planet, and she still wouldn’t have wanted more than a five-minute date with his arrogance.

  Give me a bald head and fly-eye glasses any day, she thought. Just don’t be condescending or rude.

  She glanced between Queen Amidala and Worf and smiled inwardly. Nerd fireworks were the only possible result when a Star Trek: The Next Generation character was paired with one from Star Wars — a prequel character, no less.

  Queen Amidala, whose name tag read Breanna, wore full makeup remarkably like that from the movie, and Tristan was impressed with the headpiece. She wouldn’t have known where to begin to make something like that. Breanna looked about sixteen but had to be at least eighteen to participate. She smiled coyly at Worf/Mark, making Tristan cringe. He wouldn’t be kind to waiflike Breanna, who, in the last hour, had shown herself to be equal parts sweet and smart. She might not have had the features of a supermodel, but neither did 99.99 percent of the planet, but she still deserved kindness and respect, not some arrogant narcissist living in a fantasy — and maybe his parents’ basement — who spent their five minutes playing “Let Me Show You How Brilliant I Am,” followed by “Here’s Where You’re Lacking.”

  The sixty-second window to move to the next date hadn’t ended yet. People still shifted about, some standing to stretch, men gradually rotating clockwise on the inside of two concentric circles of chairs. Tristan looked around the room again, as she did between each round. So far, she’d counted four Catwoman costumes, two of Wonder Woman, one from what had to be from Game of Thrones, and others she couldn’t pinpoint. Somewhere around fifteen thousand people had attended the convention so far, which meant hundreds of women had come dressed as Catwoman alone, and thousands more in costumes ranging from Once Upon a Time to The Flash, a show she was entirely unfamiliar with.

  She jotted down a couple of quick thoughts about Worf into her notebook, eager to write her report and see her readers’ reactions. What had begun as her personal blog to brain dump in had evolved and expanded into a career. Her site had corporate sponsors and advertisers willing to spend big money. She was given prepaid trips to attend events that companies wanted her to review. She’d garnered over four hundred thousand regular readers, and even more who stopped by occasionally. Her most viral post hit eight million views. She wasn’t rich, but her website paid the bills.

  Right now, however, she was between big accounts, so every penny was getting its life pinched out of it. Much of her success lay in providing consistently fresh, high-quality content, but the longer she kept it up, the harder it became to stand out.

  Hence her latest idea: a series focused on the western US that covered different ways singles try to find love. Last week it was a singles bar crawl in San Francisco. This week it was Salt Lake Comic Con. Next week she’d go up to Yellowstone to experience an entirely different kind of singles culture. After that she was scheduled to attend Beat poet contest for singles in Seattle.

  In each city, she made a point of experiencing as much of each location as possible so she could write many future pieces about other topics related to those areas — inexpensive dates, the unique and delicious foods, great hikes, must-see museums and landmarks, and so on. She had a feeling that her readers would eat up a Comic Con report, nerds and non-nerds alike.

  Tucking the pen between the covers of her notebook, she sensed more than saw a tall shape of someone approaching her. She looked up and held out a hand to greet her final speed date. She froze, and her heart started to thump triple-time.

  Whoa. Loki. Her one big Hollywood crush in the flesh, holding a hand toward her over the back of the chair.

  Not Tom Hiddleston, of course. A very good thing, because she would have passed out. But this man might as well have been his brother. His costume was perfect — the long black coat, tall black boots, and leather tunic with green and gold accents and layered leather strips that made V’s down the front. Even his dark, shoulder-length hair combed back was just like in the Marvel movies.

  How had she been in the same room as Loki for almost an hour without noticing him? He must have arrived late; she absolutely would have noticed those piercing eyes, mischievous smile…

  With one leg, he easily stepped over the back of the chair as if it were no taller than a step stool. Sitting, he held his hand out again. She shook it, and he smiled wider, which sent her brain into a bigger scramble. “I’m Mac. Nice to meet you...” His voice trailed off as a cue for her to say her name.

  What was her name again? She stared at their clasped hands and managed to return the shake. “Tristan,” she answered, pleased for remembering.

  “So, Tristan.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, so his face was closer now; he looked even better at this range. She could smell his cologne now, too. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Her mind went blank. She couldn’t have picked her own mother out of a police lineup. She looked down and focused on the funky carpet pattern in hopes of being able to think like the intelligent adult with a college degree she was, but all she could do was play with the curling corners of the notebook and say, “Tell me about yourself. Not about Asgard, of course.”

  Way to go —you know enough about Loki to make a comment like that. But then she realized that she’d probably been as unoriginal as someone asking who would name their child Tristan.

  Mac chuckled anyway. It might have been a pity laugh, but she didn’t care. She could hear that sound every day of her life and never get tired of it. Maybe I can manage to record him laughing and use it as a ringtone. She flushed at the thought. I am such a dork.

  “I grew up in Southern California,” he said. “Pasadena area. You?”

  She tried to answer, but her mouth was too dry to make noise without sounding like a frog. Grateful she’d brought along a water bottle, she reached for it, took a drink, then said, “Arizona — Mesa. I went to college in California, though.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “Berkley.” She took another drink, desperately needing to soothe her parched throat again. She hadn’t touched her water since entering the room, but Loki’s appearance had changed that. After a few more swallows, she set the bottle on the floor again, unable to keep herself from wondering what he’d look like with lighter hair, like Hiddleston’s. Had Mac dyed his hair, or was that his natural color? Was it really that long, or was he wearing a good wig like Hiddleston’s Loki? Mac’s eyes looked green, but maybe the dark hair and green accents in his costume drew out those colors.

  Hiddleston’s more of a sandy blond. And he’s every bit as hot in a business suit. Or a tux…

  Mac stood, flipped the chair around, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “You don’t look like a typical con-goer.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He pointed at her notepad, which she realized she’d been gripping with white knuckles. “Most people come, take in the sights, just have fun. You’ve been cataloging everything like an archivist.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “An archivi
st.” How many guys even knew that term?

  “Or, you know, something else really smart and intellectual.” He grinned.

  He’s flirting. Actually flirting. And he’d called her smart. In her experience, the few men not intimidated by a smart woman had gone the way of the dinosaurs.

  “I’ve been taking notes for work,” she said vaguely. Mac continued to study her face. Her cheeks turned warm, and she couldn’t look away. Then again, why would she want to? If only he would look away, she could admire the view without his piercing gaze staring back in a way that felt as if he could see into her soul.

  “So if you’re not an archivist, what’s your degree in?” Mac asked.

  Now it was Tristan’s turn to tilt her head in curiosity. “You know I went to Berkley. What makes you think I finished my degree?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Good hunch. I have a bachelor’s in English. And before you crack any jokes, let me assure you that it’s not a ‘fluffy’ major. Yes, I can use my degree, and I’ve never asked anyone if they wanted fries with that.” She shrugged with all of the nonchalance she could muster, which amounted to less than a thimbleful. She replayed her own words in her head and regretted them.

  I probably sound like a defensive spinster, the kind of person Worf thinks I am.

  “Duly noted.” Mac didn’t look at all put off. His smile only broadened, as if he found her even more interesting. “But I have to ask: What would be the punishment if I slip up?”

  His teasing tone helped Tristan relax, so she joked back. “Oh, see, then I’d have to kill you. And that would be unfortunate.” She held up her fist, pen point facing outward, as if she were ready to stab him. She tilted her head in mock innocence.

  Mac raised both hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare mock your degree.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed and lowered the pen.

  “Honestly,” Mac went on, “I’ve found English majors to be some of the most insightful people I’ve ever worked with. They see other points of view and know how to communicate it. They bridge teams in a way no one else can. They’re the best writers out there, and let’s face it, every career nowadays requires skill in written communication. So yeah. I think you’ve probably got a pretty big leg up on most college grads.”

  In a few seconds, he’d voiced most of her arguments about why her degree was valuable. Of course being able to dissect a William Blake poem wouldn’t help anyone design a rocket or advance heart surgery, but the skills she’d learned — analyzing literature, looking at works in different ways, and then arguing and defending an opinion — had served her well. For that matter, the skills she’d learned as an English major — along with her business administration minor — had provided her with the exact strengths she needed to make a successful business as a writer and entrepreneur.

  “Besides,” Mac added, “I can’t exactly mock English majors when my degree is equally mocked.”

  “Oh?” Laying the notebook in her lap, Tristan leaned forward, intrigued.

  He leaned forward too, his eyes narrowed as if facing a challenger and throwing down a gauntlet over who had the most mockworthy major. “Philosophy. With a humanities minor.”

  In spite of herself, Tristan covered the traitorous smile she couldn’t prevent. “No,” she said after trying rather unsuccessfully to restrain her laughter. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope.” He sat back, satisfied in his victory of lame majors.

  “Talk about a useless degree.”

  Mac shrugged. “I learned a lot of the same things you did — writing, analysis, communication. Hasn’t held me back.”

  Now that was refreshing to hear. “So what do you do for a living?” Tristan asked. “You know, when you’re not attending cons or trying to destroy planet Earth.” She tapped the cape on his shoulder but then quickly pulled her hand away, painfully aware of having been too forward but really wanting to touch him longer.

  Just to see if his muscles are as strong as they look. Even she didn’t believe the lie.

  “I’m president at a digital marketing—”

  The timer buzzed. Tristan looked up, dismayed. That couldn’t possibly have been five minutes. The timer confirmed her suspicion — it still showed two and a half minutes to go. The moderator’s voice came over the mic.

  “Thanks, everyone. We’re running a few minutes behind, folks, sorry that we have to cut it short. We need to clear out right away. Feel free to help us set up for the panel coming into this room next: five best-selling authors will be discussing potential pitfalls of stories that involve time travel.”

  She’d finally found someone she actually wanted to talk to, and their time was up? Too bad she didn’t have Hermione’s Time-Turner; she’d rewind the last two and a half minutes to relive them — and ask for Mac’s number.

  “Don’t forget your notebook,” he said.

  They’d both stood, although she didn’t remember doing so. She looked down, and sure enough, the notebook had fallen to the floor. “Oh, right,” she said in a daze. “Thanks, Lo — I mean, Mac.”

  He waved as he headed for the door, cape flowing behind him as he walked. Just before reaching the door, he turned and flashed a smile her way. Or had he been looking at someone else? Half a dozen women lined her wall; he could have been looking at any one of them. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, so she pulled it out to see a text from Alyssa, confirming their plans to meet at the Blue Lemon in the City Creek mall across the street. The text ended with the cheerful, See you in a few!

  When Tristan looked up, Mac was gone. She raced into the hall, but he’d disappeared in the river of people. She leaned against a wall and looked at Alyssa’s text again. For a second, Tristan considered canceling lunch so she could track Mac down. But what were the chances of finding him? The corridors were filled with moving people like a giant river. If he’d gone into the giant ballroom or the exhibit hall, he might as well have disappeared through Dr. Who’s TARDIS.

  Besides, seeing Alyssa happened rarely — maybe once a year since she’d moved to the Rocky Mountains for a position with a regional publisher. This was the only opening in Alyssa’s crazy schedule this entire week.

  The con went late tonight and continued into tomorrow, but that was no guarantee she’d see Mac again even if he did come the last day. She slipped her notebook into her over-sized purse and returned to the room, where she tracked down the moderator to ask for Mac’s contact information.

  “He was my last date,” Tristan said, realizing that the sentence sounded odd even in context. “And we didn’t have time to exchange numbers or anything.”

  The moderator shrugged, rearranging chairs into a line. “Sorry,” he said. “We didn’t take down everyone’s information.”

  Mac had arrived late anyway, so they probably had no information on him. She sighed, sent a confirmation to Alyssa, and headed to the media room. The food at the Blue Lemon had better be excellent to make up for losing Loki.

  Except that she was perpetually single, and her career largely hinged on her remaining that way. So what was the point of trying to find a guy who was hot but who apparently wasn’t interested enough to ask for her number? In the media room, she took out her Rey buns and shook out her hair, then unwrapped the tan-colored cloth that was the rest of her costume. After shoving the fabric and lightsaber into her purse, she typed up a few new notes about Salt Lake Comic Con speed-dating then headed out of the convention center. As she reached the crosswalk, she wanted to find the guy behind Murphy’s Law and throttle him.

  Life — or perhaps Murphy himself — seemed quite happy to throw delightfully weird things into her path that she could write about, things that added color to her writing, like Worf/Mark with his shiny bald spot. But then, when she least expected it, Murphy mocked her by dangling something in front of her that she might really want, only to snatch it away before she could grab it.

  The light changed, and Tristan crossed with a dozen other pedestrians, at
least half of whom wore costumes. Tristan raked her fingers through her hair to get rid of any lingering bun head and tried to come up with things to talk about with Alyssa without bringing up the Loki who got away.

  Looks like I’ll be playing a part, just like all of these superhero fans around me.

  Only, I don’t need a costume, and I’ll be pretending to be a happy version of myself.

  Chapter Two

  Tristan arrived at the restaurant first, so she sat near the door to wait. Her phone rang with an incoming call, playing the theme song from Gilmore Girls. The screen registered an unfamiliar number from Las Vegas. She didn’t know anyone from Sin City, but she did regularly get calls from companies and sponsors looking for ad space, product reviews, or other exposure on her website.

  “Single File magazine, Tristan Spencer speaking.”

  “Ms. Spencer, hello,” a woman’s voice said. “This is Pamela Hall, the marketing director of the Venetian-Palazzo Resort.”

  “Hello. How may I help you?” Tristan was already uncapping a pen and opening her notebook, which she always kept nearby precisely for moments like these. Her notebooks might be low-tech, but they kept her organized and her growing company functional.

  “I heard that you’re planning a series about singles events across the country.”

  “That’s right,” Tristan said. “Mostly the West Coast and the Rockies, although I’d love to do another series featuring other areas of the country.”

  Read: She’d go to other areas when sponsors based there were willing to foot the bill.

  “Have you visited Vegas for your series?” Pamela asked.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity yet, but I’d love to.” No point in saying that she hadn’t gone to Vegas because no hotels there had offered to sponsor her. She’d had so much success getting support to go to Idaho, California, Utah, Washington state, and Arizona that she hadn’t bothered with Nevada.

 

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