Fuck my life.
“No, I’m one of the game wardens in the area,” I correct her, swirling the coffee in my cup, willing it to cool down. I take another sip anyway.
“Oh, like a park ranger? So I’ll bet you definitely know your way around.”
I nod.
“So um…” She leans in, once again assaulting me with her perfume that probably costs eighty dollars a capful. “Do you, maybe, have some downtime today?”
She walks her fingers over to the back of my hand that still grips my coffee cup.
I feel my body go rigid at the unexpected touch, like I’ve been injected with an instant paralytic. I’m locked in, unable to move. A second ticks by, and then another before my brain tells my lungs to resume breathing, but nothing else moves.
She’s turned toward me, leaning her chin on a hand. Giant hoop earrings tell me she is definitely not here to hike, not if she knows the first thing about it. And I don’t know jack shit about designer jeans, but I know she didn’t get the ones she’s wearing from the local Harvest Tractor co-op. She’s made up more than aprize winning show pony and her blonde ponytail is sleeker than the deck of some asshole’s private yacht.
Out of town? Definitely. Here to take in nature and wildlife? I don’t buy it. And what the fuck does she think she’s doing to my hand?
I look down to observe her actions as she traces a manicured nail up my wrist before gripping onto it. Her squeeze is gentle but assertive, and this time, I inwardly scream at myself to move.
Jerking my arm away, hard enough to make her shoulders jump, I breathe a sigh of relief. Then my brain reminds my mouth how it works. “One block over from that espresso stand is the visitors center. Someone there can help you out,” I say, trying to dismiss her, and this time, I throw back the remains of my coffee, tonsils be damned.
“Well… I was hoping for a guided experience that’s more one-on-one, if you know what I mean,” she coos as I rise from my stool. “I’m sure you don’t work all day, everyday…” Her tone turns what I interpret as suggestive. “You could carve out a little time to help a visitor get their bearings, couldn’t you?”
Despite the newfound movement, my muscles are still tense, and my heart rate is spiking as I look for a way to shut this woman down without being an outright dick. That’s when I realize I have a shiny, brand-new card to play. “I’m married,” I inform her as I grab my jacket off the back of my chair, and fuck does that feel good to say simply because it gives me a concrete, legit reason not to entertain these tourist concubines and their ridiculous games.
Hoping that’s enough, I turn without giving the woman a second look or a chance to respond and head for the door, slinging my jacket over my shoulder as the bell announces my departure.
The crisp afternoon air is a welcome respite as I stalk out to my truck, but it’s short-lived—the bell jangles and the door bangs shut behind me.
“Where’s your ring?” It’s the same voice that’s been irritating me for the last six minutes or so, but it lacks some of the heaped-on sweetness it had before.
Thank fuck for that because I was getting a tooth ache. “What?” I give her a grimace as I unlock my truck.
She crosses her arms but otherwise softens her tone as she approaches. “You said you were married, but I don’t see a ring.”
I’m pretty close to losing my shit now. Why is my marital status and whether or not I wear a wedding band so important to this woman? “We just had the wedding, and it didn’t fit,” I rattle off my cuff. “It’s being resized.”
“Ooh! You know, I have a ring that I need sized down,” she exclaims just a little too excitedly. “Where did you take yours?”
“A buddy of mine is doing it for me as a favor.” I yank open my driver-side door. “He doesn’t take customers anymore. Sorry.”
Blondie narrows her eyes at me with suspicion before seeming to remember to slap her smile back in place. “You’re not really married, are you?” The question slides out from between her lips with more fake sweetness than a Diet Coke.
I’m about to blow off the whole conversation altogether and haul myself up into the truck when the bell jingles again and Darcie comes hustling out of the diner, carrying a small to-go box.
“Wolf!” she calls out with a wave.
Very unlike her, so she’s got my attention. Darcie is one of the few people in this town I like being around because she doesn’t push me to socialize or make meaningless small talk.
“Your wife just called, asking for one of our cinnamon rolls,” she finishes as she reaches me.
I can’t help but notice how loud and clear she emphasized the wordwifeand how that word seems to make the blood in my veins illuminate. I reach my hand out to receive the take-out box and search her face for some kind of hidden message.
She gives a friendly smile, but her eyes seem to pin with me a knowing stare. “Would you take it to her?”
Molly requesting a cinnamon roll seems odd to me after all the baking she did this week, but the look in Darcie’s eyes tells me not to question it. “You bet.” I nod
Darcie promptly turns to whoever the hell my new stalker is. “Ma’am, your spinach salad is up.” She gives her an entirely different look behind her pleasant service with a smile before turning back toward the diner with confident steps.
