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My priority has to be working out a “Right Match” for Parker. So, I have to head to Vermont ASAP.
Perfect,I think, as I scan my schedule.I’ll drive up to Vermont tomorrow after work, and spend the week there, tracking town Parker and dealing with his dating life.
And while I’m in Vermont, I’ll swing by the economics forum and see Mortimer at his conference. Since I’ll be in the area and all.
I love having a plan.
Even better if it’s an efficient plan, and this one does fit that description.
I snap my laptop closed and scratch Queenie under her dainty chin. “What do you think, Pretty Lady? You up for a trip to Vermont tomorrow with your Mamma?”
She closes her eyes and dissolves into purrs so loud, if I didn’t know better I’d think there was a blender running under the couch cushions.
I’m going to take that as a yes.
Chapter3
Parker
Duuude. What’s this? A car, in the ski house driveway?
Lame.
My truck rumbles as I idle on the paved road out in front of my parent’s vacation house and eye the light-blue Prius parked there.
It’s Friday night, and I’m done with work. What I want so bad that my mouth is watering at the thought of it, is to eat the pizza I just picked up from Moe’s, down at the center of town.
And I don’t just want toeatthe pizza. I want totear intothe pizza. Devour it. Demolish it. I’m freaking famished. My twelve-mile bike ride this morning up the steepest trail on the mountain must be catching up to me. I feel my stomach growling as I note the lights on inside the log cabin.
Skipping lunch to help Randy unload his pickup truck was not a good idea. Neither was picking up that shift at the bar without taking even fifteen minutes for a dinner break.
I want to crush a pizza, not deal with whatever friends my parents lent their house out to.
Probably some uptight and fussy couple from Wayland. I hate to be judgmental, but cars have personalities, and this one’s sending out some serious uptight vibes. There are two university stickers in the rear window.
Not one.Two.
How pretentious is that?
The plate’s red and white: Massachusetts. The tires are skimpy, too, like the rig’s hardly seen a dirt road.
My hopes aren’t high for the evening as I park and carry the piping hot pizza to the door. It’s my own fault that I have to deal with this tonight. I didn't tell my parents I was here. So I’ll put up with their friends, make small talk while I cram pizza into my mouth, and keep my fingers crossed that it’s a one night stay.
Man, is this pizza hot. If I hurry and unload all the other crap from my car fast enough. I’ll get to eat it while the cheese is still melted.
I prop the door open, drop the pizza box on a chair in the entryway, and then take a quick survey of the room to try to get a handle on what the situation for the evening is going to be.
I spot a pair of black ankle boots, neatly lined up against the wall. They’re women’s, with a little line of fur along the top and zippers up both sides.
The only other new item in the mudroom is a set of luggage: designer, paisley print, with little gold tags.
No other footwear. No other luggage.
Hm.
Either this lady has a hubby who’s still wearing his own set of sophisticated city boots as he unpacks shirts and khakis in the guest room, or the woman’s here on her own.
Somewhere over near the guest room, a shower is running.
