One
When this weekend was over, Lanie Burke told herself, she was going to seriously investigate the idea of karma. Not the concept itself, but specifically whom she had offended in some former life. There was no denying anymore that someone, somewhere, was spitting mad at her, and she was paying for it now, with interest.
Squinting through the snowflakes swirling furiously beyond the windshield, she blew out a frustrated breath and reached blindly for the volume dial on the rental car’s stereo. Louder would be good. Deafening would probably be better, especially if Dave Matthews drowned out the “told you so” voice in her head that was making it really clear this impromptu weekend trip had been a bad idea.
The problem was, her life was beginning to seem like one unending bad idea, she thought as she tried to follow the narrow strip of country road in the rapidly fading light. It had been a bad idea to make the color scheme for Elan’s latest fashion section shocking pink. Sitting at her desk and staring out at the sooty gray bricks of the building across the alley last December, she’d imagined something quintessentially springy, pretty but cleverly hip, and instead the whole eight-page spread had looked like a Pepto Bismol-induced nightmare.
It had been a bad idea to give her sister advice about her marriage. Discussing something as simple as the weather with Bell could sometimes be treacherous, but offering an opinion on her brother-in-law’s latest almost-midlife crisis had been a mistake of epic proportions. Especially since Bell was apparently now considering leaving him, at least temporarily, and moving in with Lanie.
Picturing her sister—and her sister’s luggage, overweight cat, and armfuls of self-help books—crammed into her studio apartment on Second Avenue, Lanie shuddered. Small was a generous word for the place. Even “tiny” would be kind. Most days she was amazed that she managed to live there alone without tripping over something. Another adult-sized human would be asking for disaster, not to mention more stress than Lanie could handle at the moment.
Which was the reason her friend Jess had offered the use of her husband’s cabin for the weekend. “Go away,” she’d said. “Just get in the car and drive, go up there and sleep and read and forget about everything for a few days. You deserve it.” Lanie hadn’t been sure she wanted to make the trip; after all, what was there to do upstate by herself but sit around and think about the big fat mess her life had become? But when Jess had added, “Or you could come over and look at the pictures from the wedding,” Lanie had sighed and asked when she could pick up the keys. She’d tripped over a stray purse and fallen into the buffet table at Jess’s wedding two months ago, squashing three hundred dollars’ worth of shrimp canapés and mini lobster ravioli, and photographic evidence of it wasn’t exactly going to improve her state of mind.
So she’d packed her comfiest pajamas, two good books, a bottle of Shiraz, and a box of Clairol #37— Champagne on Ice—with a positive attitude and only a medium-nauseating quantity of chocolate for backup. Maybe a weekend away was exactly what she needed. Her batteries were fizzling, so she’d recharge them. She was running on empty, so she’d refill her tank. Her mental cupboards were bare, so she’d restock them.
And then she’d work on cutting all the annoying analogies out of her vocabulary instead of cursing the weatherman for not predicting a freak spring storm, she thought, maneuvering the unfamiliar car around a curve and frowning in dismay at the snow. It was nearly dark, she wasn’t sure how to get to the cabin, and the roads were becoming more slippery with every mile.
It figured. Of course it did. This was her life lately, a dictionary-ready example of Murphy’s Law. The knowledge didn’t make driving through the snow any easier, though. Huddling deeper inside her coat, she turned off the county route and onto the main street of Churchville, skidding to a stop along the curb a moment later as the Ford fishtailed with a terrifying swish.
“Not good,” she muttered, catching her breath and waiting for her heart to stop hammering in her chest. “Very bad, in fact.” A weekend away from her life was one thing, but not if it meant risking her life in the process. Shoving the gearshift into park, she scanned the quiet street and focused on the warm gold light spilling from the window of what looked like the local bar, just a block away. It was a picturesque little town, especially in the snow, like something out of a New England postcard. Another day, it would have been nice to sketch it.
Right now she had different choices. She could either trudge through the snow to the bar and ask for directions, if not a snowmobile, or freeze to death drinking the bottle of Shiraz, happily drunk but ultimately a human popsicle. Sighing, she buttoned her coat, turned off the engine, and grabbed her purse, opening the door into a sudden gust of wind and blinking fat, wet snowflakes from her eyelashes. Slogging through at least five inches of snow, she staggered into the Coach and Four wet, shivering, and wishing like hell she’d worn something other than the cute spring mules she’d bought on sale at Saks the week before.
And realized she was standing in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the crowd gathered at the bar and huddled up to the tables off to the right, all of whom were staring right back with curiosity.
“It’s snowing,” she managed, sniffling and shaking snow from her hair.
With that, everyone turned back to their drinks, and a flush of embarrassment melted her frozen cheeks. There was nothing like an idiotic understatement as a way to introduce herself.
She edged her way up to the bar, murmuring apologies as she tapped on shoulders and tugged on coat sleeves. Directions could wait. She needed a hot drink, and she wouldn’t say no to a half dozen warm towels, either.
The bartender was ignoring everyone to stare at a round little brunette in a fuzzy purple sweater at the opposite end of the bar. Lanie edged closer to lean on the solid oak surface, sniffling and trying not to bump up against the mountain of warm wool on her right.
“Um, you’re dripping on me,” the mountain said.
She was tempted to snap at him, just to burn off the irritation of being miles from home, freezing, and looking like five miles of wintry road, when she turned to face the man instead and blinked at the warm, deep blue eyes twinkling at her.
Wow. They didn’t make guys like this in the city. She’d have to keep that in mind when her lease came up for renewal. She’d love to sketch him, too—all those masculine planes and angles of his face, the gentle curve of his mouth, those fascinating eyes.
She wrestled the damp edge of her coat away from his leg, smiling what she hoped resembled an apology while she stared back. Rough around the edges in a scruffy, completely masculine way, he looked like a guy who knew how to fix more than the virus in a computer. Like a guy who would rather spend his money on baseball tickets and hot dogs than off-season Armani. Like a guy who’d never heard of Armani, in fact.
In short, he looked good. Blond, and solid, and just a little bit mischievous, with those eyes twinkling at her. How did he do that in the smoky half-light of the bar?
Not that it mattered. Good was bad, definitely. At least in her case. With her luck lately, flirting alone would result in grievous bodily injury and/or a hazmat team bursting through the door.
“Tongue’s frozen, huh?” Twinkle.
He was so big and burly and sweet, that ridiculous sparkle in his eyes should have reminded her of a young Santa Claus, but it didn’t. The eyes in question were too blue, but not at all chilly. They were as deep as the Caribbean, where it was hot and lush and wet ... Suddenly the jukebox that sometimes clicked on in her head cued up the theme from A Summer Place.
Oh, God. What the hell had he asked her?
“Tea’s good for that,” he said, reaching out to unwrap her scarf and drape it over the back of his chair. Then he slid off his stool and patted it. “Sit. You’ll thaw faster. And I’ll be out of dripping range.”
“Thanks,” she managed with a slight croak, cursing the heat in her cheeks. “I’m a little, uh ...”
“Stunned?” When she nodded, he told her, “It happens. We’re used to snow as late as May around here, but tourists aren’t. They come for crocuses and go home with frostbite.” More twinkling.
She was doomed.