Chapter Nine

Walker

“I’m sorry…did you say you wanted to have a…picnic?” he asks incredulously from his end of the line.

“Yup. That’s exactly what I said,” I reply, certain he can hear the smugness in my voice.

I considered all kinds of options for the date I don’t want to have. A movie will limit talk time, but will maximize in-the-dark time. No. A restaurant maximizes talk time and has the added stress of eating in front of someone. Definitely a hard pass. But a picnic…now that was a stroke of brilliance on my part. It’s November in northern Minnesota. There’s a layer of crunchy ice on the ground. No way, nowhere is he going to find a suitable location for such an outing. Not this time of the year, anyway. He’ll have to agree to wait until the spring. And, hopefully, he’ll have found someone else to stalk by then.

“Can it be an indoor picnic?” he asks.

“Absolutely not. I’m not going to hang alone with you in your apartment, or brother’s dorm room, or wherever. No, I want the picnic in the park experience.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then I hear a slow exhalation.

“Okay, then. Well, a deal’s a deal and if that’s what you really want, I guess there’s just one thing to do…”

Yes! Yes, yes, yes!

I’m still doing fist pumps in the air when he finishes his thought.

“I’ll just have to make it work.”

Wait. What?

“What did you just say?”

“I said I’ll make it work. You want a park picnic, Walker O’Halloran, and I shall provide you with a park picnic.”

No. No, no, no. This is not the way this is supposed to go.

“Don’t you… I mean, shouldn’t we maybe wait? You know, till the weather’s a bit better?” I suggest.

“Nope. I don’t want to let this wait. What days are you free this week?”

“This week?” I echo, my turn to sound incredulous. “Like this week this week?”

He chuckles.

I can’t believe this is happening. How could I have let this happen? Crap!

“Uhhh…I have classes on Tuesday and Thursday…” I reply, unable to think of a good enough reason to withhold the information.

“Okay, then, how about Wednesday? Like five?”

“It’ll be dark by five,” I remind him. “And cold…”

“You let me worry about that. Tell you what, I’ll text you the address on Wednesday afternoon. I mean, I assume you won’t let me pick you up on account of me possibly being a serial killer and all,” he teases.

I am not amused.

“I have no intention of sitting out on the ice, freezing my butt off in the dark. Not with you or anyone else.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be comfortable and you’ll feel safe. And you can leave anytime you like. I promise, Walker.”

The joking tone is gone from his voice by the time he finishes that sentence, and I can tell he’s being totally sincere. This guy really thinks he can pull this off.

“Okay, fine. But I’ll be waiting for a call when you figure out this won’t work.”

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” he replies as if there’s no doubt in his mind.

Well, that’s okay. Because I’ve got enough doubt for both of us.

…

I receive a text with an address in a town that’s about fifteen miles east of home. That’s when I realize this is really going to happen. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I just tell the guy to take a hike? Maybe because there were witnesses. Maybe because I’d never hear the end of it if I backed out. Maybe… Maybe because I sort of, kind of want to go out with him.

Just the once. Just to see. Just to pretend.

But pretending is all that it’ll be. I know this because the dreams wake me each and every night now. They are a brutally harsh reminder of my permanent plight as Whiskey Spinster, forever destined to tend bar in the town of Mayhem, Minnesota.

I follow Siri’s directions and am sure something must be wrong when she leads me to an obscure, out-of-the-way park by an obscure, out-of-the-way lake—neither of which I’ve ever heard of. I turn into the drive and stop at the entry booth. A pleasant-looking older woman opens her window and the sound of a television laugh track spills out from inside.

“Help you?” she asks.

“Yeah, uh, I’m meant to meet someone here…”

“Oh! You’re”—she pauses long enough to look down at a paper—“Miss Walker O’Halloran?”

“Umm…yes…?”

“Righty-o. Mmkay, just follow this road up the hill and around. You’ll pass Lots A and B. What you’re lookin’ for is C. Like Cat? Don’t you be alarmed that there aren’t many cars there. The young man asked me to let you know that I’m aware of the fact that you’re there, and so is the park ranger.”

“He is?”

“You betcha.”

“And the ‘young man’ wanted you to tell me that?” I confirm, more than a little amused—and perplexed—by this information.

She nods.

“Yes’m. Something about you knowing you’re safe and that he is not a serial killer.”

I snort. I can’t help it.

“Seriously?”

“Oh my, yes! We take serial killers very seriously around here!” she informs me with a nod that is very serious indeed. “Anyhoo, that’s Lot C you want. Like cat.”

“What, has he got an igloo up there or something? It’s like twenty degrees out!”

“You’ll be plenty comfortable,” she assures me with an “I know something you don’t know” smile. Before I can press for more information, the woman’s closed the window again and has turned back to her sitcom.

“Okay then,” I mutter, putting the Jeep into drive and following her directions, noting the fact that I don’t pass any other cars. Not on the road. Not in the aforementioned Lots A and B. It would appear the entire park is empty as I drive along the twisty road, following signs to C. When I finally pull up, there are only two cars there, a ranger’s vehicle and a flashy white SUV that must belong to Mason. Only he’s not sitting in it. So…where could he possibly be thinking we’re going to have this—

My thoughts stop short when I catch sight of it. Sitting atop a thin layer of icy, crunchy snow residue—the last remnants of a Halloween storm—is a white tent. Not the camping kind, but the catering kind. The type of oversized pop-up shelter used for outdoor parties, weddings, and graduations. In the spring. And the summer. And maybe the early fall. But not now. Not two weeks before Thanksgiving.

“Holy. Crap,” I mutter under my breath as I get out and stare for a long moment.

“Evening, Miss O’Halloran!”

I jump at the sound of my name nearby before I realize the ranger is actually sitting in his Range Rover.

“Oh, uh, hello…?”

“Mr. Stevens is expecting you. And he asked me to let you know that I’ll be sitting right here, in the parking lot, should you need anything…or fear for your safety at any time.”

Oh, now this really is too much. But before I can say anything, I see the flap/door of the tent open, and Mason steps out, grinning in my direction. He holds up a hand and beckons me forward. I consider getting back in my car and bailing but I have to admit…I’m a little bit curious. A tent in the snow. A ranger in the parking lot. It’s certainly the most interesting date I’ve ever been coerced into going on. Slowly, I step out and walk the three hundred feet to where he’s standing.

“What is this?” I ask, looking up to the top of the structure that’s about the size of a one-car garage.

“This is where we’re having our date,” he replies with a sheepish smile.

“Dude! Are you nuts?”

He looks amused by my question. “No, why do you ask?”

“Because it’s November on the Iron Range. And it’s freezing out here!”

“It may very well be freezing out here, but I’ve got heaters in there! And it’s actually quite cozy.”

I sigh with reluctant acceptance and give my eyes a roll for good measure. Just so he knows that I am not pleased by this. The megawatt smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. I hold up a finger of warning.

“Dude, if there’s like a bed in that tent, or whips and chains—or anything else that could be construed as fifty shades of kinky—you’re a dead man.”

“No bed,” he assures me. “And no kink—of any shade. And I threw in an official State Park Ranger! The guy’s got a stun gun and everything. If you feel threatened by me in any way, you just give a holler and he’ll come running to your rescue. Now please, come inside, will you? It’s freakin’ freezing out here!”

He turns around and goes back inside, leaving me standing there. I glance back at the ranger, who waves at me.

Okay then…

When I step through the flap, it’s as if I’m transported. The bitter pre-winter chill melts away—quite literally—into a toasty, welcoming oasis in the middle of the Minnesota Iron Range. I’ve done more than my fair share of freelance bar gigs for weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs…so I’ve been to more than a few events inside tents just like this one. Only this is nothing like I’ve ever seen. At least, outside of those Hallmark movies that my sisters love so much.

The whole place is cast in a sepia glow from tiny twinkle lights that line the poles framing the thick canvas panels. They draw together in the center of the pitched ceiling. Somewhere, a speaker is streaming some slow music from the forties. In the center of the tent is a huge plaid blanket, serving bowls and platters set in the middle along with real plates and silverware. There are even flickering candles and a low vase with flowers.

The entire space is filled with the kind of thoughtful, romantic touches that usually rub me the wrong way. When I see them in movies and in books, they come off as cloying and saccharine, disingenuous. But not here. Not now. Somehow, Mason Stevens has managed to outfit the space with the most disarming decor of all: his good intentions.

“Go ahead,” I hear him say, a smile in his voice. “I know there’s a snarky comment rolling around somewhere in that head of yours. I can take it.”

I stop and look at him. The blond hair. The blue eyes. No, he’s not my type at all. But—for just an instant—I imagine what it would be like to touch him. To kiss him. To—

I tear my eyes away from him before my wayward imagination can concoct any more ridiculous scenarios involving me. And him. And us.

“I…uh…I was just thinking what a nice job you did,” I say, hoping he can’t tell I’m lying through my teeth.

Both of his brows go up in surprise. “You were?”

No, not really. But that answer is as good as any.

“Uh-huh. But I’ve done a few outdoor events and I’m thinking there’s no way you pulled this all together on your own. You must have hired someone to set this up. And cater the food. I can’t imagine how much it cost to have them open a closed park and arrange for a ranger to be chaperoning us all evening.”

He shrugs and smirks at the same time. “I can neither confirm nor deny, Miss O’Halloran. Now, would you care for a glass of wine? Or maybe some seltzer water?”

“Yeah, I’ll try the Chardonnay,” I say, watching with some amusement as he considers the old-fashioned corkscrew that someone has left beside the bottle. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, fine,” he murmurs, jabbing the cork ineffectively.

“Would you like me to—”

“Nope, no, I’ve got it,” he says through his now-gritted teeth as he tries to wrestle the thing into submission.

Finally, he manages to embed the metal tine into the cork, but when he gives it a good twist, half of it breaks off in a ragged chunk while the other drops into the bottle.

“Mother…”

“Trucker,” I finish and he stops to stare at me.

“Huh?”

“Mother. Trucker,” I repeat with emphasis. “I have three nephews and a niece—all with a serious gift for mimicry. I’ve also got two sisters who will seriously strangle me if I give their children a colorful new addition to their vocabulary. So, in my world, there are alternative curses. Like mother trucker. Bass bowl. Clustertastrophe…”

He starts to laugh and I can’t help but notice it’s a much better look on him than the frowning-at-the-bottle look he had just a few seconds ago.

“Huh, well, that’s…creative!”

I hold out my hand and gesture for him to pass the wine to me. He does and I manage to pull out the cork remnants before pouring us a couple of glasses.

“So, I have to ask. Why’d you go to all this trouble? The park, the ranger, the tent…”

He looks sheepish. “I wanted our first date to be someplace nice. Someplace private…but not so private that you’d think I was being creepy.”

“Hence our chaperone,” I add with a nod toward the flap and the parking lot where I know the park ranger to be sitting with a cup of coffee and his iPhone.

“I was trying to be sensitive to the fact that you don’t know me. Not really, anyway. I want you to feel safe and under absolutely no pressure to stay here with me.” I snort and his pretty face crumples. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“No pressure? You pushed me into a wager I didn’t want to make in order to get me here! What would you call that?”

His expression is frozen for a few seconds while he thinks about this, then it softens.

“Yeah, okay. You got me there. I just thought that if we could spend a few hours together alone we could…you know…try each other on for size.”

I want to throw a sarcastic response at that last line but am stunned when none comes. And then the moment is gone. It’s all about timing.

“Well, it was very thoughtful. And expensive, I’m guessing.”

He looks a little uncomfortable.

“Walker…I should tell you a couple of things. Like…I’ve got some money,” he begins softly and cautiously, as if I might bolt from the tent and across the freezing tundra at the revelation.

“I don’t care either way,” I inform him, taking a sip of the excellent wine. He watches me, waiting for more. But there really isn’t much more to say to him on the subject. “I mean, it’s none of my business. Just don’t expect me to be hanging all over you because of it. I don’t need fancy tents and cars and presents to be happy.”

“Who said anything about presents?” he asks and it takes me slightly off guard.

I shrug. “No one. I was just saying. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

He nods and sips his wine before speaking again. “Yeah, so, about the money. You see, my mother—”

I hold up a palm and he stops, mid-sentence.

“Listen, would it be okay if we just not talk about family? Just for a little while?”

He looks as if he’d like to say more, but he nods, finally, and I’m relieved. The last thing I want to do right now is get on the subject of parents. I’m already regretting the fact that I blabbed as much about my father as I have. The less we know about each other the better, as far as I’m concerned.

I stroll around the interior, stopping in front of a plastic window that’s been cut into the canvas. Someone obviously gave some thought to the position of this tent. It couldn’t be an accident that this window now offers the perfect view of the lake as the sun drops lower and lower in the western sky.

“This is really something,” I comment.

There’s a slight shift in the air, and I know he’s right behind me before he speaks.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs—his voice coming from close to my right ear.

“It is,” I agree, looking back at him over my shoulder. But he’s not looking at the lake, he’s looking at me.

I turn away again before I can blush.

What is it with this guy? Why does he insist on being so… so…flipping charming?

“I’ve never been here before,” I comment, trying to steer his attention away from me. “How’d you find this place?”

He steps back a little, breaking the spell. “Oh, well, when we first moved to Minnesota, my brother and I were just kids. My folks—” he stops short. “I’m sorry, this kind of involves my family…”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I asked, go ahead and tell me.”

“Yeah, well, they liked to bring us here for picnics on the weekends. Sometimes we’d row out into the lake. It was nice.”

There’s a hint of nostalgia in his tone.

“But there’s no playground or anything,” I note. “Didn’t you want to play with other kids?” Then I think of his brother. “Or does Emmet prefer smaller groups?”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, I turn away from the window to find him still watching me, but with a different expression. His light brows are furrowed and he’s got a half smile now. Jeez, how many different smiles does he have?

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” I demand uneasily.

“I just…it’s just really nice that you remembered my brother. His name. And that he’s, you know, got his own way of doing things.”

I shrug. “Occupational hazard. I can’t help but remember names and faces.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” he comments skeptically. “Somehow I think it’s more than that. I think it’s more about you.”

Abruptly, I make a move toward the blanket and plop down in front of the food. “So, maybe we should eat something? You know, since I don’t want to be out late…”

“Right, right, right,” he agrees, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder as he moves around me.

This contact—the feel of a touch from someone I’m not related to—packs with it such a zing of electricity that I actually gasp out loud.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I say quickly. “Just…just got a chill, that’s all.”

“Oh! Well, here, let’s warm things up a bit.” He adjusts the special tent-friendly heater and then lowers himself to the blanket. He grabs a plate and hands it to me. I glance at his face, look away, and then look back again. Is it possible he’s getting better-looking by the minute?

No. No, no, no. This is all pretend. Remember? Pretend.

I take the plate—a nice plate, I note, not a paper one—and start to pick bits and pieces from the lovely spread he’s laid out. There’s cold chicken, potato salad, fresh fruit, and what appears to be an apple pie. My favorite. And, while the idea of cold picnic food when it’s twenty degrees outside isn’t normally appealing to me, the cozy ambiance he’s created here, within the tent walls makes the food as delicious as any I’ve ever had.

“This is really great,” I mumble between mouthfuls of red-skinned potato salad.

He nods, his own mouth full. “It is, right?” he agrees, once he’s swallowed. “You wanted a picnic, I was going to give you a picnic. Complete with a picnic menu. I was going to have some ants, too, but they’re hard to find this time of year. Although, I’m guessing you know that. In fact, you were counting on it, weren’t you?”

He’s got one blond eyebrow cocked upward challengingly. I opt to play dumb.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not a fan of ants any time of year, so really I couldn’t care less if you’ve got them or not.”

“Uh-huh. You and I both know why you asked for—no, why you demanded a picnic. You didn’t think I could pull it off. You probably thought I’d say, ‘oh, okay. I guess we’ll have to do it when it’s warmer,’ right?”

“Pfft. Please, you give me too much credit. Can’t a girl just feel like having a picnic?”

He lets out a quick, sharp bark of laughter.

“Well, yes, a girl can. But you’re not just any girl. In fact, I wouldn’t call you a girl at all. You, Miss O’Halloran, are most definitely a woman.”

There’s something in the way he says this that’s slightly naughty. Exactly what he was counting on, I’m sure. I put my fork down.

“What are you trying to say, Mr. Stevens?”

He leans closer to me. “Just that you’re one of the smartest, trickiest, sexiest women I’ve ever met.” His expression changes now, the playfulness replaced with something more serious. Sincerity, I think. A guess that’s confirmed when he speaks again. “I’m really glad you agreed to this, but you didn’t have to work so hard to weasel your way out of it. I’d have backed off if you really wanted me to, Walker. I still will, if you tell me you’d like me to leave you alone.”

I consider him for a long moment. But, clearly, not long enough. Because if I had thought about it for even an instant longer, I probably wouldn’t have done it. I probably wouldn’t have leaned across the plate of chicken, over the excellent potato salad, and around the apple pie to put my lips on his.

I definitely wouldn’t have done that. But I didn’t consider. And I did do exactly that, to the utter amazement of us both.