Page 32 of Famous for a Living

“Ranger Cranwell’s niece,” Mina continues. “We’re so excited to finally meet you.”

There’s a reverence in her voice at Uncle Terry’s name. It’s clear that, in her world, Terry is king.

“Oh.” My shoulders relax. “Right. Yes.”

“Not to rush you, but we’d better get a move on if we’re going to make it to the staff meeting. I put eggs on the counter and have cold-brew coffee with”—her gaze reaches for the ceiling as she spouts the rest—“three vanilla beans, a tablespoon nutmeg, quarter teaspoon cinnamon, half-cup fat-free vanilla creamer, made up in the fridge.”

My brows inch up. I raise a finger. “Um.”

“I asked Superintendent Cranwell about you ahead of time,” she says in a rush. “He directed me to your Instagram, and so after I downloaded it and created a username”—she pauses bashfully—“I’m @mmrangerproud22310. You may have seen me comment on your posts . . .”

She stops, her dark eyes looking into mine as though waiting for me to jump up and say, “You’re @mmrangerproud22310? I’ve been hoping to meet you!”

“Ah. Yes. Mmrangerproud22 . . . and the rest.” I nod a bit, because this seems the thing to do.

She beams in response. “Yes, well, anyway, I took the liberty of doing a little research. It took me a bit, but on your October fifteenth post three years ago you did say cold coffee with three vanilla beans, a tablespoon nutmeg, quarter teaspoon cinnamon, and half-cup fat-free vanilla creamer was part of your ‘go-to’ morning routine—”

This really was going a little too fast for me to keep up. “I’m sorry,” I say and take a proper look around at my surroundings for the first time. The bedspread I’m holding is patched, covered in a dozen sewn pictures of mountains and creeks and woodland creatures. Where my calves and feet have been warmed at the bottom of the bed is a heavy blanket made of the hide of some animal—bear? bison? To my left is a small wooden dressing table, and on it a number of items. An earring tree holding a collection of wooden hoops and beaded earrings in blue, orange, white, green, and red. A half dozen frames filled with pictures of—

Oh no.

I swivel my head back to the girl. “Am I in your room?”

Mina looks down as if she were the one caught sleeping in somebody else’s bed. “It’s no problem. The couch is surprisingly comfortable. It’s a pullout, you know—”

Before she’s even finished her sentence, I’m throwing the sheets off me and jumping out. My hands struggle indecisively with the covers, at first trying to make the bed back up and then thinking that, of course, she’d want to strip the sheets and wash them instead.

“I’m so sorry.” I pull off the corner of one sheet and move quickly to the bottom of the bed. “It was late and dark last night when I got in. I—I assumed—and here you are making me coffee.”

“Well, sure,” she says brightly. “That’s what roomies are for.”

I halt. Stand upright, a mash of sheets in my hands. “Wait. So. This is the right cabin?”

“Of course.”

“This,” I say, needing the extra clarification, “this is my cabin?”

She nods.

“But it’s a one-bedroom.”

“Right.” Mina’s brows crease together, like this is obvious. “Plus a pullout bed.”

The pause between us lasts a couple hours. It must, because when I swallow, my throat has gone dry.

“Which is,” I begin slowly, “where I will sleep.”

“When you’re not in mine, evidently.” She grins at her own little joke.

So. My cozy little cabin is so “quaint” and “cozy,” I’m quite literally sleeping on a couch.

With a puppy-eyed roommate.

And a salary so low I won’t be able to afford the gas to get into town for coffee.

And I’m cold.

This time last year I was in Barbados, talking with my financial advisor about whether he thought getting a vacation home there would really be prudent.