by Lisa Plumley
“Wait!” Rachel called as he strode across the short distance dividing them from the thumping, bumping, merry-go-round of suitcases. “You don’t even know what they look like.”
With a mighty yank of his arm, Reno lugged a Vuitton bag from the carousel. He set it at his feet, then glanced at her.
Damn it. He’d guessed right.
Rachel hated being predictable. When she’d been a teenager here, stuck in small-town Midwestern purgatory, she’d done all she could to stand out. To feel unique. To make it plain to everyone that Rachel Porter was better than Kismet—that great things were in store for her, just as soon as she made it out.
Somehow, the fact that Reno could read her like a book seemed to threaten her ultracool image. The image she so prided herself on. The image that reminded her that she really had come a long way from her dinky small town. Surely no temporary career derailment could erase that—despite Reno’s lucky luggage guess.
Irked, she tapped her toe. “Hold on. There’s more to—”
Deftly, Reno plucked the remaining three of her overstuffed bags from the carousel without waiting for her to complete her sentence. It was galling. Not that watching him work was all that arduous. The way he hefted her heavy luggage made her imagine all kinds of gallant tough-guy gestures, like opening doors for ladies and sweeping them off their feet and into cozy, flannel-sheeted beds with warm quilts and lots of pillows.
Whoa. She was ogling a burly guy and imagining bedding? In detail? Tyson and Alayna had really done a number on her.
Reno appeared at her side. Somehow, he’d tucked a suitcase beneath each arm and one in each fist—and made the feat seem easy. She guessed there was something to be said about corn-fed, down-home men. Especially when a girl needed help.
Not that she needed help. Just a little downtime.
“Okay. Let’s get out of here.” Rachel turned, clutching her Hermès and her carry-on bag, leading the way with her chin held high. “Before you guess any more details about me.”
“Details?” Reno’s voice followed her. “Like…?”
Like my bra size. My spider phobia. My single ignoble appearance on the CNN crawl.
Rachel hoped people in Kismet still kept their TV sets faithfully tuned to Fox News, where her little fashion revenge story wouldn’t even register. She was counting on it.
And, to increase her odds, she was planning not to leave her parents’ house until New Year’s Day, too.
“Nothing.” She waved. “Let’s go. Mush, He-Man.”
He didn’t cooperate. She stopped, swiveling to see what the problem was. At least ten paces behind her, Reno waited.
“You’re going the wrong way again,” he said.
God. Could she do nothing right lately? “I am not.”
“Wanna bet? I parked that way.” He angled his head left.
“Oh.” She paused. “Of course you did.”
Embarrassed, Rachel lifted her chin a notch higher. She swerved left and sailed past him, gathering her unraveling cool.
“Would it be too much for us to walk together?” he asked.
Breezily, Rachel waved. “Keep up, why don’t you?”
Reno laughed. “When we hit the parking garage, I bet you ten bucks you can’t pick out what I’m driving.”
Perfect. “You’re on, sucker.”
Newly determined, Rachel bolted for the nearest exit. If she could just handle the hour-long drive between here and Kismet, she might survive this night after all. Especially since Reno was being so obliging with the bets. After all, as she always said, there was nothing like a little competition to add spice to life.
Chapter Nine
Reno stood beside Rachel, watching as she peered across the multiple rows of vehicles in short-term parking. There was no way she’d pick out his truck. Not around here. Chevys, Fords, even Toyotas…to most women, all trucks blended together.
“Nothing like a little competition to add spice to life.” He put down her bags, then mimicked a bored stretch, as if setting up camp for the night in Section A12. “You might have an easier time of it if you took off your sunglasses.”
She didn’t so much as slide them down her nose. But she did give him a long, thoughtful once-over, starting at his boots and rising—with disconcerting directness—gradually higher. Beneath her scrutiny, Reno felt naked. Not in the fun way either.
Defensively, he stuck out his chin. “Well?”
“Well…hmmm. You’re not the elaborate-truck-mural type.” Rachel dismissed a nearby king cab with a sunset decorating its tailgate. “You’re not the Hummer type.” A nod toward his jeans. “No apparent need to overcompensate. Good for you.”
He nodded. “Thanks. But if you’re planning to go the elimination route, I’ve got to warn you. We’ll freeze first.”
“I know. What is it, twelve degrees out here? Brrr. I forgot how cold it is in the boondocks.”
Rachel shivered, wrapping her fuzzy hoodie more closely around her—and offering him an unprecedented view at the same time. Wow. That fluffy knit really hugged her—
Reno cleared his throat, deliberately shifting his gaze to her face. Then to her fingers, as she absentmindedly plucked at the trim on her sweater…thing. In this light, it looked pink.
“What is that?” he asked. “Care Bear fur?”
Rachel recoiled, looking appalled as she crossed her arms. “Of course not. What kind of person are you?”
“For starters, a person who wouldn’t run around with Cheer Bear wrapped around my neck.”
A pause. “You’re just trying to throw me off my game.”
“Is it working?”
“Of course not.”
“Then that’s not what I’m doing.” He gave her fur collar another skeptical squint. “That can’t be very warm though.”
“It’s not, actually.” Rachel snuggled inside it anyway. “So be quiet and let me guess which truck is yours already.”
Wearing a determined expression, she strode up the nearest lane, examining the vehicles on either side. Stuck waiting with her pile of luggage, Reno had nothing to do but examine her.
“What happened to your punk rock hair?” he asked.
Rachel touched a now-silky hank. “My what?”
“In high school you had crazy hair.” He wiggled his fingers around his ears to indicate as much. “And glasses.”
“I wear contact lenses now.” With brisk strides, she went from a Ford pickup to a Chevy, glancing inside their cabs and beds. She pursed her lips, then kept going. “And I grew up.”
“Hmmm. Kismet will be disappointed.”
Rachel aimed her sunglasses-shuttered gaze at the row where Reno’s truck was parked. Remarkably, she veered toward it.
“Yeah? Well I don’t care what Kismet thinks of me.” With a flourish, she whacked the edge of his battered old truck bed. Striking a pose, she grinned. “This one. This is it.”
For one insane minute, Reno considered bluffing his way out of their bet. That’s how crazy meeting her had made him.
“It’s one step up from a tractor.” Rachel sized him up again, this time peering intently at his face. “But it’s yours.”
He stood there for another few seconds, deliberating whether to disown his reliable old truck. Nope. No way.
“It’s a good truck.” He hoisted her bags, then strode to his pickup truck, his breath forming puffs in the wintery air. He made ready to plop all four of her suitcases in the bed.
“Nooo!” She flung out both arms to stop him, then wrinkled her nose at his truck bed. “Can’t you put those in front?”
“Only if you’re willing to ride in the bed instead.”
For a heartbeat, she seemed to consider it. “I’ll scrunch up really tightly next to you. Then everything will fit right?”
“With this much luggage?” Reno made a doubtful face. “No.”
“Then I’ll call a cab.” She fished in her purse. “If there’s even one to be found out here in the boonies, that is.�
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“You’re going to take a cab fifty miles?”
“If necessary.” She whipped out a cell phone. Surprisingly, it looked like the same inexpensive, outdated model Reno had. It was probably the only thing they had in common.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said.
Rachel eyed his truck. “So is driving around in something that looks like it’s glued together with rust and dirt. You know that kid Pigpen? In the Peanuts comics? You’ve got his truck.”
Stubbornly, Reno gritted his teeth. Had he thought of her as a diva? She was a diva supreme. A diva grande.
A diva who plundered Care Bear fur, dissed Christmas cheer, and—worst of all—insulted his truck.
“No service. It figures.” She clicked shut her phone in disgust, then stared at him expectantly, hands on hips—as if it were his fault her wireless carrier couldn’t handle parking garage interference. “Any other ideas? I can’t just put my luggage on top of”—making a face, she gestured—“that.”
That was ordinary wear and tear. But he guessed Miss L.A. Diva hadn’t had much experience with ordinary lately.
A few yards away, someone left the airport parking, tires squealing against the asphalt. Lucky SOB. He was getting away.
“Fine.” With rough movements, Reno shrugged out of his heavy winter coat. He flung it in his truck bed to cover the dried pine needles, built-up dust, and slushy snowmelt. Then he arranged the diva supreme’s luggage on top, secured it with a couple of wiped-clean bungee ties, and covered the whole assembly with his stripped-off flannel shirt. “Happy now?”
After a long moment, Rachel only shook her head, not even bothering to ogle him in his T-shirt. “I thought I was. You know what? Over these past few years, I honestly thought I was.”
Something in her forlorn expression tugged at him.
Resolutely, Reno pushed it back. She was probably just upset because he hadn’t given her a damn curtsy, too.
Nevertheless…
“Whatever’s gone wrong, it’ll work out,” he heard himself say in a gruff tone. Apparently, he couldn’t stand seeing a grown woman get sniffly. Even if she was a citified glamazon with entitlement issues. “It always does. Just give it time.”
Rachel chewed her lower lip. Her sunglasses-covered face turned toward him. “You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“Aww. That’s sweet.” She sounded doubtful though.
“We’d better get moving before the snow gets worse.”
She looked alarmed. “Snow?”
“It’s what happens here in the boonies. In December.”
“Oh my God.”
Laughing, Reno shooed her toward the other side of his truck. He followed and opened the passenger side door for her.
Hypnotized by the sweet curve of her derrière as she slid onto the frigid leatherette seat, it took him a second to realize he was standing there with the door open, gawking.
You know where to go, right?” she asked as she climbed inside. “How to get this thing between here and Kismet? Or,” she asked, “are you only licensed to drive a plow?”
Reno snapped out of it. Rachel Porter was attractive. She was sexy. She was even pretty likable, despite everything. But for a person who’d grown up in the heartland, she was seriously misinformed about the Midwest.
“I’m licensed for both. But I’m better at the plow.” He nodded. “You’d better buckle up.”
While she scrambled for the seat belt, Reno walked around to climb in the driver’s seat himself. “Ready?”
“Ready or not, Kismet. Here I come!”
They made it twenty miles down the highway—roughly thirty miles outside Kismet—before everything fell apart. Stuck in the dark night with his truck wipers working double-time against the snowstorm, Reno braked for a traffic slowdown. It appeared to go on for some distance, possibly to the next turnoff. It was hard to tell with the snow flurries going on.
Beside him, Rachel peered through the windshield, her face illuminated by flares and brake lights. “What happened?”
“Probably someone skidded off the road.” Reno drummed his palms on the steering wheel, considering the problem. “It happens in weather like this. Traffic backs up until it’s cleared.” He gazed at her. “We might be here awhile.”
“A while?” She wrinkled her nose. “How long is that?”
“I dunno. Maybe a half hour. Maybe hours. Maybe all night.”
“All night? Great.” Rachel groaned. “That’s the middle of nowhere for you.” Sighing, she scrutinized the stopped cars ahead. “It’s only one A.M. What are we supposed to do now?”
“Not much to do except wait until it’s cleared.” Thinking things over, Reno glanced at the spangled Christmas ornament—a gift from Kayla—dangling from his rearview mirror. Next he aimed his gaze at Rachel, unable to hold back a grin. “But I can think of at least one good way to pass the time…”
Chapter Ten
The thing nobody had warned Angela Wright about when she’d decided on a career as a high school English teacher was that she’d be surrounded by teenagers. All. The. Time. Unavoidably.
Not that that was entirely problematic. The truth was, she loved kids. Especially the kids who wound up in A.P. Sophomore English—her favorite class—and actually learned to laugh at all the right lines of Shakespeare’s plays, spontaneously and without coaching beforehand about the racy bits. She loved seeing kids connect the dots between characters in books and people in their own lives—and themselves. She didn’t even mind grading papers, reading essays, and writing lesson plans.
What Angela minded, with increasing fervency, was the fact that, because of her job, she never met any new adults. Or more precisely, any hot, dateable, studly-or-not, quality men. Those were in short supply among the staff and faculty at Kismet High School, and all indications were that the situation wouldn’t improve anytime soon. Especially today. Monday morning.
Why couldn’t she have gone to work as an agent specializing in gorgeous male models? Angela wondered as she poured herself a cup of fresh Christmas-blend coffee from the communal pot. Or a construction coordinator, supervising scads of macho, shirtless workers? Or a business executive, in charge of a whole cadre of tie-wearing, eager-to-please, smarty-pants middle managers?
No. She’d had to choose a sensible, nunlike job instead. She’d had to choose teaching, her passion, and deny herself all the opportunities for adult interaction afforded by other jobs.
Well, it was never too late to take action, Angela decided as she smiled at a passing coworker, then added a dollop of gingerbread-flavored creamer (a seasonal item she’d brought in to share with everyone) to her coffee. Today was the first day of the rest of her dating life, wasn’t it? She’d just have to go out there and, as Horace had urged in the Odes, seize the day.
Of course, all that seizing might take awhile. As a single mother, Angela had to be even more efficient—and patient—than most women were. She’d accepted that a long time ago. She’d simply have to multitask her way back into the dating scene during the time she had available between going to work, taking care of Kayla, and enjoying five-minute showers. Piece of cake.
With that resolved, Angela paused in the teachers’ lounge before heading off to her first class. This was the one oasis in the Kismet High School hustle and bustle, the sole place where relative quiet reigned while students chattered and streamed past outside, occasionally whooping, hollering, or running.
The teachers’ lounge wasn’t outfitted with anything more glamorous than a contraband cafeteria table, a coffeemaker and minifridge, a wall of teachers’ cubbies, and a bulletin board covered with notices and memos (and this week, colorful invitations to holiday parties), but it was her home away from home. Now that Kayla had reached first grade, it was about to become Angela’s first-date-in-years’ hunting grounds, too.
After all, she’d just turned thirty. Time was wasting.
While ostensibly blowing on the spicy coffee steam
ing from her Teachers Make All Other Professions Possible travel mug, she studied her prospects. After excluding the married, the female, and the insufferable, she wound up with three potential dates.
First up, Jerome Dodd. He was single, appeared healthy and sane, and (obviously) held a steady job. Those were all pluses. She watched carefully as he packed up his Dungeons and Dragons figurines in their custom padded to-go kit before tackling another tough day of supervising JV Symphonic Band. Hmmm.
Moving on…
Next she spotted Zion Jones, this year’s new art teacher. He was appealingly eclectic, very fit (in good weather, he rode his skateboard to work), and probably well-versed in the technology Angela needed to bone up on, since he was part of the MySpace generation. That made him a potential boyfriend with work-related bonuses. On the other hand, she preferred a man who could carry on a conversation. Zion’s standard greeting was a “rock on” sign.
Moving on…
Patrick Goodger nudged his way past her, nodding hello as he zeroed in on the coffeemaker. His sleepy eyes, tousled hair, and generally charming demeanor made him the front-runner in her nouveau dating experiment. Just being near him made Angela feel all giggly and womanly—and she was definitely not a giggler under ordinary circumstances. However, Patrick’s presence had a way of making all the female staffers feel like schoolgirls.
Literally. All of them. Angela wasn’t convinced she had the feminine wiles to stand out in the crowd.
Nurturing, hardworking single mother? Of course.
Bodacious faculty femme fatale? Not a chance.
Moving on…
Except there was no one to move on to. Thwarted, Angela shouldered her big, cozy, handmade purse, then headed to class.
“Well, off to the salt mines. Have a good day, everyone.”
“Whoa, Angela. Hold up.” Chivalrously, Patrick rushed to open the door to the teachers’ lounge for her. He offered a suggestive smile. “You do the same. Have a good day, I mean.”