Page 3 of Never Your Valentine

Maybe I am. Maybe this idea was flawed from the start, nothing but a bad decision fueled by a broken heart and unrealistic dreams. But even if Echo Creek doesn’t live up to its first impression, who cares? It just has to be an affordable place to live while I get on my feet. And thanks to my dubious inheritance, I’ve got that.

“So you’re at a hotel tonight?” Kat asks.

“I’m at the hotel,” I say. “There’s only one.”

I think I hear Jacqueline say, “eww” but I can’t be sure. The wind is picking up as the sun goes down.

“Does this hotel have a bar?” Kat asks.

“Of course. It’s actually really nice.”

“So here’s the plan.” Kat grins at me. “Go find a hottie in flannel who will make you forget all about Magnus and his designer suits.”

I laugh louder than I should. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“I just want you to be happy.” Kat’s eyes flick off camera somewhere and then back to me. “We have to go.”

“Me too.” Although I don’t have anywhere I need to be.

We blow each other kisses and hang up, but just before the call disconnects, I hear Jacqueline ask, “What is she there for?”

I put my phone away and shove my hands in my pockets, glad all over again that I bought a down coat for my trip. Same with my knee-high fuzzy boots. When I tried them on in the store, my feet immediately started sweating, and I thought I’d never need boots this warm, but now I’m grateful for the wise decisions of my past self.

I’m also grateful for the wise decisions of my future self. I’m going to stop stomping around in the cold and sit myself in a nice warm bar where I can have a grown-up cocktail. But just one. I have to keep my wits about me and not fall down any romantic rabbit holes, no matter how many hot guys in flannel show up at The Frostline bar tonight.

Chapter 2

Grant

Northern Michigan is paradise in the summer. Old growth pine forests circle small towns like soft green hugs. The lakes are so full of fish that catching one feels less like luck and more like a courtesy. We have clean air, cool nights, and stars that shine like they’ve got nowhere else to be.

From May to September, tourists hit our shores in weekly waves. Families from Chicago. Seniors from Arizona. Europeans who speak better English than I do. Hikers, fishermen, beach people, and my personal favorite—girl trips.

The locals meet on Wednesdays at The Driftwood to drink beer and try to top each other’s tourist stories. One week it’s Dove telling us about the teenager who licked the display case at her bakery. Just…licked it. “Not enough Windex in the world,” she told us. The next week, it’s Pam from The Twisty Whip complaining about the man who asked if this was “one of those adult-themed places,” when he’s at a building shaped like an ice cream cone, surrounded by sticky children. Or my brother Felix telling us about a group of frat brothers who signed up for an extreme hike, not realizing that extreme means rigorous, not just expensive, and how one of them cried because he had to carry his own gear.

Wednesdays at The Driftwood are half blowing off steam, half bragging, because summer tourists are so unpredictable.

Winter tourists, on the other hand, only come in three kinds. I always know exactly what they’re going to do.

First are the folks who own their own cabins. They’re here for snowmobiling or ice fishing, and only come into town for groceries or gas. Good people.

Second are the ones who are running away, or lost on the way to somewhere else. I tend to avoid them if I can, but occasionally they show up on my doorstep. I don’t turn them away. Everyone’s working through something.

Then there’s the third kind of winter tourists. The worst kind. The kind that don’t want to be here, but have to be, because their boss says so.

It happens every year. Some middle manager will have the stupid idea to bring their colleagues to the Upper Peninsula in the middle of winter for a week of team building. They stay at The Frostline Hotel and try to book activities, which they can’t because Echo Creek basically shuts down in the winter. But my rage room stays open, and the corporate people always book it.

This time, it’s software developers. Four men in their thirties are hyping each other up and trying to get to the weapons before I’ve even handed out safety gear.

I really hope nobody gets hurt tonight.

I pass out coveralls, helmets, and gloves, then go over the safety guidelines. Maximum of two people on any piece of equipment. No kicking or pushing. Take turns. Throw the breakables, not the weapons.

These guys have opted for our popular “Office Space” layout. We’ve got the room set up with old computers, printers that don’t work, dead phones, and chipped coffee mugs. For the next twenty-five minutes, they’re going to use baseball bats and sledgehammers to destroy it all.

“We’re going to play music while you’re smashing,” I tell them. “Just to set the mood.”

“Hell yeah,” the beefiest guy says. He’s heading toward the weapons.