by Liv Rancourt
The main entrance rose two full stories, anchored by a huge stone fireplace with a slate hearth. To the right of the fireplace a door led to the dining hall, and to the left was a stairway to the guest rooms on the second and third floors. Krista and I had reserved one of the cabins, figuring we might need an escape hatch. Bundling my things out of my CRV, I was grateful for her foresight.
A card table had been set to the left of the front door as a check-in point for the conference attendees. We got ourselves signed in, dumped our gear in the cabin, and went to the orientation session. The room was about two-thirds full, and I couldn’t help myself; I spent the entire ninety minutes assessing my fellow conference attendees for their romantic possibilities.
Well, the male ones, anyway.
They finally cut us loose, and Krista and I shuffled along the sandy path to our two-room cabin. We had one of the lucky ones facing the beach, which was cool, but still—if we held hands, Krista and I could touch all the walls in the main room at once. It held two bunks, a desk, and a folding chair, and the bathroom was so tiny I wasn’t sure I’d be able to turn around in the shower.
“‘Keeping your program afloat’? What a lame-ass title. Their ‘advocacy skills’ were rehashed common sense and a lot of wishful thinking.” Krista pushed the cabin door open wide, and a blast of late-afternoon sun highlighted the dusty sand our feet kicked up.
I landed hard on my bunk, the coils under the mattress giving a perfunctory whimper of protest. “Because starting off a conference with an hour-and-a-half discussion on how to keep your job is always uplifting.”
“Damn.”
Not exactly the response I was expecting, and Krista’s thumbs began a furious flurry over her phone.
“What?” I asked.
She tossed her phone on the bed. “Effing J-Bone says he can’t come Sunday night.”
“J-Bone?” I reached behind my neck for the ties holding my halter top up. “You’re dating a guy named J-Bone?”
“Well, everybody’s gotta have something they’re good at.” She propped herself up on her elbows and gave me a naughty wink. “And don’t even think about taking your dress off.”
I was saved from having to respond by her phone’s chirp. By the time she refocused on me, I’d untied the dress and was digging through my duffel bag for a pair of shorts.
“Nope. No way.” She swung her legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Social hour is next, and you’re not going dressed as a shortstop.”
“First base.”
“Whatever.”
Irritation drop-kicked my sense of humor out the window and I planted my fists on my hips. The front of my halter dress flopped forward, but I was too pissed to care. “Did you see anyone out there who would possibly care what I am wearing?”
“Yes.” Her phone chirped. “Wait a sec.” She grabbed it. “And put a shirt on. Your titties are bugging me.”
I expelled a bunch of frustration in a sigh for the ages and dropped onto the bed. I didn’t exactly tie the halter, but at least I tossed the straps over my shoulders.
Krista finished her text and raised an eyebrow at me. “P. Kirk Ringdahl is here.”
The head of our local teacher’s consortium, Kirk Ringdahl, starred in his own show. His breezy confidence was born of being one of the only unattached males in any group of music teachers, a status elevating him to the center of attention.
Sure, I’d seen him. And chosen to ignore him. “So?”
“So? He’s straight and single and—”
“If you say he’s handsome, I’m going to puke.” And I meant it. Seriously. My day-long sour stomach threatened a huge revenge. He was tanned and toned and handsome in a dark-haired, semi-effete way but his main flaw was his chin, which faded into his Adam’s apple.
“Get over it.” Krista glanced up from her text war to scold me.
I really needed to go for a run. “Aren’t you the one who said puberty did him a solid by letting him grow a goatee, so we’d know where his face ended and his neck began?”
She shook her head, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. “You are hopeless.”
“I don’t care how much lipstick you slap on this pig, my dear, there’s no way I’m going to get kissed.” Because even if there was a likely suspect out there, he wouldn’t be looking at me.
She jumped off her bunk and grabbed my arm. “Strap that dress on and let’s get out of here, because it won’t happen sitting in this cracker box.”
In the end, I let her tie my dress and lend me some lipstick and even fix my hair in a semi-cute little up-do. Giving in was easier than fighting Hurricane Krista.
Chapter 4
“I feel naked,” I murmured in Krista’s general direction. She was half a step ahead of me on her way into the lodge’s dining area.
She turned and glared over the top of her glasses, a look made even sterner by the hard line of her bangs. She’d taken out the ponytail and her straight dark hair fell to a precise finish just above her shoulders. “Ball up.”
The sun-dress and hoodie combo hadn’t bugged me during the ferry ride, and sitting at the edge of a conference room had been okay, but wearing something so far out of character in front of a group of professional acquaintances, coworkers, and friends made me want to hide under a trench coat. The cleavage had dropped at least two inches since we’d left the cabin, and without shorts I’d have no crotch protection if my skirt blew up.
“P. Kirk at ten o’clock,” Krista said, sotto voce.
I locked my knees to keep from bolting. “What’s the P stand for, anyway?”
“Performance.” In her pink dress that looked like it was borrowed from a ’60s housewife, Krista smirked and strutted off in the approximate direction of ten o’clock.
Rather than follow her, I glanced around the room for some other familiar faces. My fellow music teachers filled about half the seats in the dining hall, a huge room with windows looking out onto the beach and a bar in one corner. Each of the round tables could hold eight or ten people. The color scheme was built around watery greens and blues, with the kind of easy-to-clean, indestructible furniture found in places catering to the anonymous public.
The grade-school teachers had congregated in one corner so I headed in their direction, ignoring Krista’s hiss. Predominately middle-aged and female, they were a safe group on which to try out my new look. I’d accrued several compliments and at least one person had asked where I shopped when something large and warm tapped on my shoulder.
I jerked around. “Yeah?”
Kirk Ringdahl handed me a glass of white wine. “Krista sent me over with this. You should come join us.”
My jaw dropped open, though in the back of my mind I could hear Mom telling me to shut my mouth because I looked like a fish. “Sure.”
His jovial smile forced his chin deeper into his neck, and though his hairline might have receded since the last retreat, he’d spent more time in the gym to compensate. And his smarmy attention implied I was some kind of prize. Eek.
While I was still floundering, he brushed my arm with his fingertips and led the way to his table. I followed, doing my best not to stumble on my sandals’ tiny heels. Krista greeted me with a little round of silent, mission-accomplished applause.
Which wasn’t obvious at all, except to anyone sitting at the table with two eyes and as many brain cells to rub together.
Kirk made an overproduction out of pulling me into the chair next to his, giving me yet another reason for embarrassment. Across the table, Jessica Freeman kept her beady hawk’s eye on every move I made. She was a high school choir director, therefore closer to Kirk in social standing, and her vibe made it clear she did not appreciate my presence.
In addition to Jessica, four other members of P. Kirk’s rooting section were taking me in with varying degrees of hostility. They all had good solid music-teacher names, like Jenny, Elaine, Karen, or Theresa. Except those weren’t their actual names. I forgot them as soon as Kir
k said them, and decided, at least in my own head, they were all named Sue. Old Sue, Not-As-Old Sue, Doesn’t-Look-Old-Enough-For-College Sue, and Pregnant Sue were arrayed around Jessica like ladies-in-waiting. If she was the princess, then I was Cinderella’s jock cousin.
And Krista was Loki and Anansi and Coyote all rolled into one.
“Maggie Schafer, Maggie Schafer, Maggie Schafer,” Kirk drawled, his gaze traveling from my eyes to my mouth to parts further south. “I haven’t seen you since the last time this fine group congregated.”
I straightened my shoulders and cleared my throat. Just because I was dressed like a girl didn’t mean I couldn’t still kick his ass all over the softball field, and I’d be a born-again virgin before I gave it up to P. Kirk Ringdahl. He might be single and straight, but he was still a dweeb.
“Different schools, different school districts, you know.” I funneled as much back-off-Jack into my voice as possible.
“If you had a seat on the council, we’d see each other at the meetings.” He patted my hand and winked. “There’s usually a chance for socializing after the business is done.”
And I’d rather eat a rodent. “I’m pretty busy.”
“I bet we could work something out.”
Kirk fawned and Jessica sniffed and I had to sit on my hands to keep from popping him one. I gulped wine instead, then almost spewed it when Krista’s pointy heel stabbed the top of my foot.
Amid a chorus of choking and laughter, one of the Sues tossed me a napkin and Krista managed to direct my attention to the doorway. My heart stilled. Stopped. Which was fine, because all the blood in my body rushed to my cheeks.
Except for the boiling puddle lower down.
All this because a certain Ginger God in faded jeans and a green T-shirt happened to be strolling into the room.
Chapter 5
While we’d been busy socializing, a buffet table had joined the bar, and servers began surreptitiously setting the tables for dinner. The room filled, the lights dimmed, and the smell of roasted garlic drowned out the old fish ocean smell. Kirk progressed from patting my hand to brushing my elbow to draping his arm in the general vicinity of my shoulders, and in self-defense, I went from clasping my hands to crossing my arms to sitting so straight I redefined perpendicular.
The man had an overdeveloped sense of his own animal magnetism, made worse by the presence of the Ginger God, who reduced Kirk’s attractiveness to absolute zero.
The evening’s guest speaker took the empty seat at our table. Professor Baumgartner had headed the music program at the University of Washington for years. His after-dinner talk would compare world music pedagogy with older methods of teaching. Yawn. He greeted each of us, then honed in on Jessica, whose girls’ choir had received an honorable mention at State.
She glowed under his attention, giving me the chance to wonder why Kirk bothered with me when he could have someone like her. Her looks said sorority sister and Nordstrom shopper, while mine said too much softball. All the girly clothes in the world wouldn’t hide the fact that I had the body of a muscular twelve-year-old boy.
Jessica punctuated each obsequious smile for the professor with a flirtatious smirk in Kirk’s direction.
Or a pointed glare at me.
When the professor finished blowing smoke at Jessica, Pregnant Sue dragged me into the ring. “What about you, Maggie? Where do you teach?”
Too bad public school events couldn’t serve hard liquor. I could have used a shot to take the sting away from her pseudo-friendly tone. “Lakewood Elementary.”
“Oh, the littles? How cute.” All the Sues sent up a chorus of squeals. “They’re just so … enthusiastic.”
“Yeah.” And honest, and funny, and a whole lotta things grown-ups have forgotten how to be.
Servers lifted the tops off the hot dishes on the buffet line, and teachers from some of the other tables had started moving in the direction of food. Kirk put his hand over mine and leaned over in the direction of my ear, his voice low and throaty. “How come I never noticed you were so pretty?”
I stared at my fork and froze my smile in place. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe later we could go for a walk on the beach?”
Ick! “Ah, maybe.”
Professor Baumgartner stood and three of the Sues followed him, leaving me at the table with Jessica and Pregnant Sue. I scooted my chair away from the table, locked my fake grin in place, and prepared my escape.
“We haven’t had much of a chance to talk,” Kirk murmured, leaving a trail of slime in my ears.
“I just think elementary kids are a little dull, you know?” Jessica said to Pregnant Sue. They were facing each other, cutting us out of their conversation, while just as obviously talking loud enough for me to hear.
“What did you want to talk about?” I speared Krista with a glance, but she was forehead to forehead with one of the Sues. Not the time for professional networking, BFF. Unless she was over there planning my salvation, we were going to have words later.
Kirk ran his fingertips along the back of my neck. “I’m so happy you’re here tonight.”
Oh no. He did not just do that. I jumped out of my chair like it was time to make a break for home plate. “I’m going to get in line for dinner.”
“Let’s.” He kept a hand on my elbow, guiding me toward the buffet line.
“I’m good.” I jerked my arm away. “Really.”
He seemed to take the hint—finally!—and we made it through the buffet line with a minimum of embarrassment.
Once everyone was seated, Kirk stood to give Professor Baumgartner an unnecessarily long introduction to the soundtrack of clanking silver and scraping plates. Most of the people in the room were UW graduates and already knew the professor, but we all smiled and applauded as Kirk spoke. He planted himself behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder, and after shifting in my seat, trying to shake it off, I gave up. Krista only shrugged and ignored me, like she thought a P. Kirk hookup was a done deal. Then I noticed the Ginger God seated at a table across from me.
Looking in my direction.
But not at my eyes.
He slouched in his chair, arms crossed as he gazed south of my shoulders, in the general direction of my breasts. My cheeks got warm and, even more embarrassing, my nipples got hard.
He smiled slowly, as if he noticed the last bit even from across the room, and his gaze traveled up even slower, peeling off my halter top on the way. His attention felt way too intimate for a room full of more than two hundred people. I shifted in my seat again, trying to ignore the burst of heat between my legs.
My independent streak started screaming about arrogance and invasion of privacy and inappropriate behavior. Whatever. My fingers twitched, ready to trace his Celtic tat and go exploring under his soft green T-shirt. For the first time in five years, three months, and five days, I wanted to be alone in a room with a man when he had that look in his eye.
Instead of listening to an illuminating debate on the possible applications of world music pedagogy compared with Dalcroze and Kodaly, I imagined how a Sex Diva would handle the situation.
And desperately wished the Cosmo article had some tips on cross-room eye sex.
The meal could well have been composed of sawdust and turpentine. The Ginger God’s attention shifted when the servers started plunking dessert on the tables, leaving me chilled, like someone had just pulled the covers off me in bed. Krista was too absorbed in an exchange of text messages to talk, and Jessica and the Sues rose in a block. I followed close behind and made a break for the door.
Kirk caught me in the lobby, but as I was stumbling through some half-assed excuse about why I couldn’t walk with him, a warm body pressed against my back and strong arms wrapped around my waist. Jerking my head to the side, I managed to plant my mouth on someone’s waiting lips.
Warm. Soft. Tasting of savory man and smoke. I should have done something to escape, except he held me and turned me and pulled me closer. And
kissing the Ginger God beat the high holy hell out of dealing with P. Kirk Ringdahl.
Chapter 6
Pretty much nothing in this life had prepared me for what to do when being held by one very attractive man while another one stood there sputtering. The crowd in the lobby might have quieted, or maybe I just couldn’t hear them through the blood pounding in my ears. In the end, kissing the handsome stranger was much easier than dealing with everyone else’s reaction.
And a lot more fun.
From some very distant place—or five feet away—Krista’s little shriek pierced the cloud of steam surrounding my consciousness, and I eased away.
“Stay with me,” the Ginger God whispered, and rested his chin on her head. “Sorry I was late, baby.” He spoke for the whole room to hear. “My ferry got held up.”
I did a quick series of calculations. I could introduce this guy to my backhand for being so bold, which would elevate the current situation from gossip-worthy to OMG YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW.
I could play along, saving the lecture for later.
Or I could run like hell for the ferry.
It was only five miles or so.
Krista would bring my stuff home.
I snuggled closer to Ginger’s chest. Couldn’t run. Kitten heels.
“Hey, Kirk.”
The guy’s voice rumbled through me and his woodsy scent pinged an internal reminder. Duh. I had a goal for this weekend.
“Randy.” Kirk snapped the word like he wanted to jam it down the other man’s throat.
Randy. The Ginger God had a name. I ran him through my mental database but didn’t find a match. He wasn’t an elementary music teacher, for sure. And Krista would have recognized him if he taught middle school. Maybe high school? East of the mountains? New in town?
“It’s great to see you, man, but we were just leaving.” With a two-fingered wave that started at his forehead and ended with finger guns, Randy tugged me toward the door.
I flashed a glance in Kirk’s general direction. His face was red and his lips were tight and I considered moving avoid Kirk Ringdahl to my number-one goal for the weekend. But the heat in Randy’s smile wouldn’t let me change a thing.