Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 15

“OH, BLERK.” I LOOKED in the mirror, but it was undeniable. I turned to view my backside. Mistake! “Shit, Bowie! Look at me!” He stood up and came over, licked my knee in sympathy, then collapsed to the floor to offer me his stomach. I gave him a perfunctory scratch, then surveyed the issue at hand.

This morning at work, Muriel had received a large carton from her daddy’s company. With great aplomb, she’d handed out the goodies, starting in Reception with Damien, working her way down … Pete and Leila, Karen, Fleur, and then yours truly. She’d been quite stoked, laughing with Fleur, joking with Pete, dolling out clothes like it was Christmas and she was Santa. T-shirts in various colors, all with the Bags to Riches logo (a floating plastic bag). Multipocketed hiking shorts, the cute cargo type that went down to the knees. Hiking boots for everyone. A few backpacks.

And then she came to me.

“Callie,” she smiled. “Here you go!” She handed me a bile-colored T-shirt, then reached in the box and withdrew a handful of fabric. A small handful.

I blinked. “Um …” I held them up. My heart sank. These weren’t hiking shorts … they were bike shorts, the kind those bony praying mantis people wear on the Tour de France. “Are there any hiking shorts left?”

She pretended to glance in the box. “No, sorry. Well, there are, but they’re in my size.” She didn’t finish the thought … therefore you couldn’t even get your arm in here. “Callie, please. Don’t make this an issue. As long as it’s Bags to Riches, it doesn’t matter.”

Well, it mattered to me. As I stared into the mirror in my bedroom, I sighed. Miss Muriel deVeers probably weighed somewhere about ninety-seven pounds, all sinew and ropy muscle defined by countless hours with (according to Fleur) the same personal trainer who screamed at contestants on The Biggest Loser, a show I often enjoyed with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. If Muriel wore these shorts, she’d look buff and bony. Me? I looked … oh, just past my first trimester, I’d guess. Unfortunately, I wasn’t pregnant. Not with a child, anyway. With Betty Crocker vanilla supreme. That’s right. I had a food baby.

Tomorrow evening was the mandatory corporate hike with Charles deVeers and a couple of BTR executives. Mark had encouraged us all to bring friends, hoping to show how much we all embraced a wholesome and adventurous lifestyle. If it sounded pretentious, painful and affected, I can assure you, it really was. Pete and Leila were computer geeks who often bumped into doors and walls, too engrossed in cyberworld to pay attention to the real deal. Karen’s last attempt at physical exercise had been on the high school shuffleboard team, which she quit her sophomore year. Me … my dog pulled me up the steep hills when I rode my bike, and I didn’t like to paddle my kayak faster than I could walk.

Add to this the fact that we were heading up to Deer Falls Trail, which twisted its way four thousand feet up Mount Chenutney. Apparently, the trail was so named because of the alarming number of deer that fell to their deaths on said trail, something I found less than reassuring.

But more than the hike was, of course, the attire. Damn that Muriel! I knew this was deliberate. She wanted me to look bulging and soft and sluggish, and since I was all those things, I would.

“Blerk!” I yelled, startling my dog. As I flopped down on my bed, the waistband of the satanic bike shorts cut into what had yesterday been a pleasant amount of padding and today was clearly blubber. I glanced at my rocking chair, which held no solutions and indeed, didn’t seem to want to speak to me. When you’re with me, it seemed to say, we’re not going to be shallow. Got it?

“Got it,” I said, well aware that I needed to stop talking not just to Betty Boop and Michelle Obama, but to my furniture as well. “Don’t worry,” I told Bowie, who was looking at me, his lovely little brow wrinkled in concern. “I’ll always talk to you. Any way you can chew some of this fat off?”

My dog gave my hand a few licks, but otherwise declined. I’d already tried my Dr. Rey’s Shapewear, but that type of bondage was not going to work if I was supposed to hike up several thousand feet of mountain. Even a rush order of hiking shorts from BTR was not going to make it in time for tomorrow.

I groped behind me for the phone and called Hester. “Hey,” I said. “Is there some miracle drug you can prescribe for me that will take off about ten pounds by tomorrow?”

“No,” she boomed amiably, “but I can come over and lop off your head. That’d be about eight and a half, nine pounds. How would that be?”

“You’re no help,” I said. “I have to wear these stupid bike shorts tomorrow, and I have a food baby—”

“I’m hanging up now,” she said, and did just that. I really couldn’t blame her. Yes, yes, I was incredibly pathetic. But still. There had to be something I could do. I picked up the phone and tried Annie, who tended to be much, much more sympathetic about matters like these.

“Hey!” she said. “What’s up?”

“I need to drop a few pounds overnight,” I said, getting right to the point. In the background, I could hear the clatter of pans. “What are you cooking?”

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t talk about it, if you’re trying to lose weight,” she said, ever wise. “Seamus, spit that out right now. I don’t care. It’s raw.”

“Give him a kiss for me,” I said.

“Callie’s sending you a kiss, Seamus. Spit that out, I said!” She turned her attention back to me. “So what’s going on?”

“Corporate hike, skinny Muriel, formfitting bike shorts, food baby. Need I say more?”

“Ooh,” she said. “Okay, yeah, I understand. I can help. Write this down.”

We were best friends for a reason.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I was back in regular clothes and at a store I’d never patronized before: The Happy Herb. It was new, it was organic, it smelled funny, a cross between hay, garlic and pot.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman behind the counter. She smiled and pushed her lank and somewhat thin hair behind her ears.

“Oh, I’m fine! Just browsing!” I said, not about to admit I was a shallow dope who wanted to look good in front of her ex-boyfriend and his new woman. I figured I’d just float around the store, find the product I was looking for, possibly explain that I worked in advertising and was doing some research, hence my purchase.

Once Annie had given me the Holy Grail of weight loss medicines, I checked Google, and the online testimonials had been quite encouraging. One woman (Cindy G. from Alabama) said she lost seven pounds just before her fifteenth high school reunion. An entire dress size!

“So how’s business?” I called out, pretending to check out the natural hair care products. One brand of shampoo had eggs, yogurt and honey in it. You could shower and have breakfast in one fell swoop.

“Business is great!” she answered. “Are you from around here?”

We chatted amiably as I drifted through the aisles. Personal Care. Sexual Enhancement. Memory Improvement. Attitude Modification (perhaps I could slip some into my mother’s coffee). Ah, here we were! Intestinal Health. And bingo, the item I’d come looking for … Dr. Duncan’s Cleanse ‘n Purge Weight Loss Jump-Start Tea.

“Hmm,” I murmured, picking up the box as if intrigued. “Interesting.” The copywriter in me wondered if a more subtle product name wouldn’t help sales. The box looked like something Dr. Duncan had assembled while watching TV … it was slightly crooked and held shut with Scotch tape. The front panel showed a blurry picture of Dr. D., a smiling, bearded and very thin man. The copy on the back was off center. Tsk, tsk. Perhaps I’d contact Dr. Duncan and pitch him.

Reading the box, I cringed. Dr. Duncan’s Cleanse ‘n Purge Weight Loss Jump-Start Tea is 100% herbal all natural organic, guaranteed to detoxify your bowels from the modern-day poisons you ingest every day—eep!—maximize your liver’s ability to filter toxic waste—dear God!—blah blah blah, ah, here we go … adhering to and flushing out your body’s fat cells, allowing you to jump-start your new weight loss and health maximization with results that can be measured within hours!

Okay. So tonight would be spent in the bathroom, I got that. Wishing that I was a more sensible person, the kind who didn’t try to lose seven pounds in a twelve-hour period, I picked up the box. Don’t do it, Mrs. Obama advised. Sure. Easy for her to say. There were Pilates classes in her honor. Besides, common sense was outweighed by the image of my disgusting food baby. And after all, hadn’t the tea worked for Cindy G.?

I glanced around the store. No one here but the clerk. Superb. Of course, I wasn’t about to buy just the Cleanse ‘n Purge … I had to hide it among other purchases. I grabbed some beeswax-based shampoo. A little moisturizer, what the heck. Some green tea that Noah might like, better than the black coffee he swilled all the livelong day. Oh, some sassy lip balm for Josephine. Apricot shower gel for Bronte. Organic cookies for Bowie, who, it must be acknowledged, really preferred Quarter Pounders with cheese. Bringing it all to the counter, I made sure the Cleanse ‘n Purge box was buried in the middle.

“So glad you found something!” the clerk sang.

“Oh, me, too!” I sang back. “I bought some stuff for my nieces.”

“Great! I’m so happy!” she said, seeming to mean it quite profoundly. She scanned the shampoo, humming as she did so. Then she looked past me and beamed again. “Hello! Welcome to the Happy Herb!”

I turned to look, then flinched. It was Ian McFarland. Crap. No woman wants to be caught buying a weight loss miracle, let alone one called Cleanse ‘n Purge. And certainly not by the man who’s already seen her at her worst. Leaning subtly over the counter so my arm sort of draped over Dr. Duncan’s blurry, bearded face, I decided to play it friendly. “Hi there, Ian,” I chirped.

“Hello, Callie,” he said neutrally. His eyes met mine briefly, and he gave a little nod. That was it.

And yet … and yet he remembered my name. Which, of course, he should. But still. It felt like a compliment. And he was … I don’t know. Big. Male. He was a big, strong male. And I liked big, strong males. Get a grip, my imaginary Michelle told me. Yes, ma’am, I answered silently. Sorry. But even as I apologized, my attention drifted back to Ian.

He wore jeans … I’d yet to see him in something other than a suit, and I was having a hard time taking my eyes off those jeans, which fit very nicely. His polo shirt was a faded red, and somehow he managed to look quite … dangerous in a most pleasing and (let’s be honest) horny way. Like at any minute he’d get the call from a mysterious government agency and trot off to kill someone, the way Clive Owen did in The Bourne Identity. I’ll bet Ian had some cool scar somewhere … yes, actually, there it was, up near his eye. Knife fight, I’d bet hard cash.

I’d also bet he knew how to kiss. Guys who looked like that could kiss, ladies. Or so my romance novels told me. Hard kissing. Kisses that started hard, anyway, then went soft and long and the woman would be pulled against his unyielding chest, his arms like bands of steel, me all soft and melting, him hard and hot …

Blerk! I was staring. And he was looking back. His eyebrow raised in an unmistakable Do you mind, lady? kind of look.

Blushing, I turned back to the clerk and fumbled in my purse for my wallet. I had a purgative to buy. “I’m in a little bit of a hurry,” I whispered.

“No problem!” she cooed, ringing up the shampoo. “Are you looking for anything special today?” she asked Ian.

“Do you have any glucosamine in one-thousand-milligram tablets?” he asked.

“You know, I might!” she answered.

“For dogs?” I asked.

He cut those blue eyes back to me. “Yes.” Then he dropped his gaze to my purchases—crap, I’d moved!—and I hurled my body in front of the counter.

“I give glucosamine to Bowie,” I said, my voice a little too loud. “Every day. Dr. Kumar recommended it, even though he’s young. Bowie, that is. Bowie’s young. He’s three. Dr. Kumar … he’s what? Middle-aged? Retired, of course. His boys are out of college, anyway, so he must be … sixty? Fifty-five? Have you met the boys? They’re great.”

Ian didn’t answer. I didn’t blame him. There was something about Ian McFarland that made me blather on like an idiot. Yes, there was definitely a pattern emerging here. Closing my eyes briefly, I smiled at him and managed to shut up. Behind me, the happiest woman in the world rang up my purchases.

“That will be $97.46,” she said.

“Holy Lord,” I exclaimed. “Wow!”

“I know,” she said, grinning like a monkey. “It’s the Cleanse ‘n—”

“Doesn’t matter!” I blurted. “It’s worth it! Because it’s all organic! So worth it.” I handed her my credit card. One hundred bucks? Christ! “I can’t wait to try the shampoo,” I said in a more normal tone, hoping to throw her off the scent of Dr. Duncan and his miracle cure.

“It’s so wonderful,” the clerk said, tucking her limp hair behind her ears. “I use it, too.”

I tried not to flinch. “Great.”

“Here you go!” she said, handing my bag over like she was giving me the Nobel. “Make it a supermagical day!”

“I … okay!” I said. “Thank you.”

Clutching the bag to my chest, I walked past Ian. “Have a supermagical day, Ian,” I whispered, unable to help myself.

“I always do,” he murmured.

That stopped me in my tracks. I glanced behind me. Ian wasn’t smiling, not exactly. His mouth was in its usual straight line, but his eyes … those blue, blue eyes … and there it was again, that hot and darting thing in my stomach.

The whole way home, I thought of that almost-smile. And I have to admit, it was a pleasant distraction.

DR. DUNCAN WAS A GENIUS, I acknowledged as I surveyed myself in the mirror the next afternoon. I’d have to write him (as Hester G. from Vermont, to punish my sister for not helping). And I hadn’t even had to sleep on my bathroom floor! Not that that would’ve been much of a hardship. My bathroom was a thing of beauty, which was rather strange, since Noah had built this place, and a luxurious bathroom wasn’t something I’d have imagined him caring about. But I had a beautiful pedestal sink, a shower area made from those big bricks of thick glass and, the pièce de résistance, a huge Jacuzzi tub that I never used but often meant to. Noah’s own bathroom was much more utilitarian. Maybe he knew he’d need a grandchild to live with him someday, and this had been his bribe. Whatever the motivation, I was grateful. Getting ready was always a pleasure in here.

Especially now that my food baby, while not completely gone, had definitely shrunk. I wasn’t sure how it happened, since the expected GI distress never occurred (God bless you, Dr. Duncan!), but I looked pretty smokin’, if I did say so myself. Curvalicious, even. More like fertile J-Lo than stringy Lindsay Lohan, and thank God for that. Take that, Muriel! If I was the equivalent of, oh, let’s say a really good hamburger, juicy, comforting and delicious, Muriel was a rawhide shoelace. Mark had once told me (in Santa Fe) that he liked a woman who was, well, womanly.

I gave the biking shorts a tug, smiled at my reflection, and went out into my bedroom, where Freddie was waiting for me. In my chair!

“Get out of that chair!” I barked. “Fred! Come on! Out, you bad dog!”

“Why? I’m a grown-up. I won’t spill anything,” my brother grumbled, though he obeyed.

“First of all, you’re not a grown-up. Second of all, that chair is special, as you well know.” I bustled over to it. Poor chair, having to support my dopey if lovable brother. “I’m saving it.”

“For what?” Fred asked, flopping on my bed.

“For my happily-ever-after,” I said.

“That’s really pathetic,” he offered.

“I know,” I agreed. But that chair was for my future, and until I got there, I wasn’t about to squander it on the likes of my semi-clean brother. “But you still can’t sit there. That’s the rule, I’m the boss of you, the end. You ready to go?”

“Yes, yes. Tragic, really, that you have no friends and have to bring me as your date.”

“Don’t forget Bowie.” At the sound of his name, Bowie snapped to his feet and began jumping so his front feet left the ground. “Yes, Bowie, we’re going for a walk! Yes, we are!” I turned to my brother. “And I do have friends. It’s just Seamus had a soccer game, so Annie couldn’t come, and Dave wouldn’t come because he and Damien broke up.” Dave was not only Annie’s brother, but also Damien’s boyfriend. The two men kept their relationship sparky through serial breakups and glorious reunions.

“Well, if you want people to like you, you picked the right sibling. I won’t lecture anyone on ovarian torsion, after all. And then there’s my good looks, natural charm and athletic prowess.”

“No ego problems here,” I said, giving him a fond cuff to the head.

“It’s hard to complain when you’re me,” he acknowledged. It was true. He was a good-looking puppy, Freddie was, the image of our dad and, according to Noah’s picture, Uncle Remy.

We clattered down the stairs. “Bye, Noah,” I called into the workshop. The table saw was running, so I waved to make sure he knew I was leaving.

“Where are you going?” he asked, turning off the saw.

“I have that work hike thingie to do. Dinner’s in the oven, okay?”

“What did you make me?” he asked, scowling. Dear cuddly Grampy didn’t like eating alone.

“Veggie lasagna.” His scowl grew deeper. “You’ll like it,” I assured him. “I used lots of cheese. We have to run, Noah. Fred, say goodbye to your grandfather.”

“Bye, Grampy,” Fred said, smiling.

“Bye, jackass,” Noah said amiably. “Keep an eye on your sister, and don’t forget you’re supposed to help me tomorrow, you lazy good-for-nothin’.”

At five o’clock, right on time, we pulled into the small parking lot at the base of Mount Chenutney. Mark trotted over as we got out, and Bowie yipped in excitement, then licked my boss’s knee. “Great! You’re here! Come meet the BTR people! And Callie, thank you for bringing someone. Pete and Leila didn’t. Hi, Fred.”

“‘S’up, Mark?” Fred said affably.

Mark was a little tense, that was clear. The three BTR people had come in this afternoon, but only Mark and Muriel went to lunch with them … a fact that caused a pang. Usually, I was in on those client schmooze fests. Then again, maybe it was more of a … I cringed at the thought … more of a family thing. Muriel. Her daddy. Her boyfriend.

We went over to the group, who looked slightly less than adventurous and athletic. Damien, who once told me that he felt Giorgio Armani was our greatest American, looked quite ridiculous in his BTR gear, as if a pin were sticking something tender. Pete and Leila, whom I rarely saw without a computer blocking their torsos, wandered aimlessly, their hands linked, their legs shockingly white even by New England standards.

Muriel, however, looked great. Long and lean, hiking boots, tan hiking shorts and a fitted sleeveless red shirt with Bags to Riches written across the back. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail. She seemed relaxed and happy … not her usual look.

“Charles,” Mark boomed heartily, steering me over to the knot of BTR people. “This is Callie Grey, our fantastic creative director. She’s so excited about the new campaign, right, Callie?”

“Oh, absolutely!” I said, giving Mr. deVeers my hundred-watt smile as my dog flopped down and exposed himself. “It’s great to finally meet you. I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Callie,” he said. His eyes fell to my chest, then rose quickly back. “Very nice indeed. This is Anna, my marketing vice president, and Bill, our sales director.” We shook hands all around, smiling hard. Bill and Anna were young, fit and gorgeous. They looked like twins … highlighted hair, perfectly tanned skin, glow-in-the-dark white teeth … just what you’d expect from young executives in California.

“Mark says you have some great ideas for us, Callie,” Charles deVeers said.

“I think so,” I said, smiling again. “I can’t wait to show you.”

“I can’t wait, either,” he murmured suggestively. Hmm. Well, my own father was a flirt, too, so I couldn’t really hold that against him. He bent down to pet my dog, who immediately began to sing in appreciation. “This is one gorgeous dog you have, Callie. A beautiful dog for a beautiful woman.”

“Why, Mr. deVeers! You charmer, you,” I said, grinning.

“Call me Charles,” he said, smiling back. It was a harmless vibe, and heck. I liked men, especially the type who liked me.

“Daddy,” Muriel said, stepping between us and lacing her arm through her father’s. “Let’s get going, okay? We don’t have time to waste if we want to make it down before dark.” She gave me a cool look, then ran her gaze up and down my form, her nose twitching.

At that moment, Fleur pulled up in her British-flag MINI Cooper and clambered out. Like Muriel, she was wearing normal hiking clothes (I was the only one in skintight anything). Like Muriel, Fleur looked athletic and competent. She’d said she was bringing a guest … what were her words? Someone “with potential.” And here he was. I did a double take. It was Ian McFarland.

“Oy, mates!” Fleur said, her British having unraveled from upper crust to Cockney.

“Hi!” I called as they approached. Fleur made the introductions. As Ian shook Mark’s hand, he glanced over at me. That’s right, Ian. Me, emotional diarrhea, DMV. Yep, that’s him.

Five minutes later, we were off, down the trail and into the woods. The line was clearly ranked. First went Mark, Muriel and Charles, followed by Anna and Bill. Then came the rest of us in a somewhat tangled knot … Fred, Damien, Pete, Leila, Fleur, Ian and yours truly. Karen had been excused, claiming to have sprained her ankle while watching television last night.

“So, Fleur, how do you know the good doctor here?” I asked, glancing over at her.

“We met through Tony Blair,” she said, referring to her foul-tempered and obese Jack Russell terrier. “He ate something a bit off, yeah, and wasn’t his chippy self.”

“Huh,” I said, shooting Ian a look. Dang. I really, really wished I’d thought of something other than “The dog ate my paper.” Ah, well. Water under the bridge.

The trail began as a fairly wide and lovely path through the woods. Little stencils of a deer falling from an incline were painted on a tree every fifty feet or so to mark the path. As the trail grew steeper, it also became more narrow. Our group began to string out.

It was then that my stomach emitted the most astonishing gurgle. Squeerrrllllerrrggghhh … I jumped at the sound. What the heck? I’d eaten lunch … well, I had a couple of carrots, not wanting to feed the food baby anything fatty when Dr. Duncan’s Cleanse ‘n Purge had worked so … Squeerrrllllerrrggghh.

Oh, dear. A slight cramp bit into my left side, and I flinched. Oh, no.

“Hungry?” Freddie asked.

“Um … no,” I said. Not a lie. “I’m fine.” Gluuuurrrrggggghhh. I tried to clamp my stomach muscles down on the sound. It didn’t work. Goooorrrrggghhh. God, it was loud! Ian gave me a look, but said nothing.

Just then, Charles deVeers decided he had to have more time with me. “Callie!” he called, turning around to wave. “Join us up front and chat a bit!”

“Would love to!” I called back. Gluuuurrrrggggghhh. “Excuse me, guys. Duty calls.”

Great. Not only was my stomach making Exorcist-type noises, but I had to trot up the path thirty feet or so to join the big guns, Bowie leaping at my side. And my biking shorts were making themselves known to me. The thing about clothes made from plastic bags … they don’t breathe that well, as you might imagine. They smother, and right now, they were asphyxiating my thighs. Swatting at the gnats that danced around my head, I tried not to inhale any as I panted.

“How’s everyone up here?” I gasped when I reached the front of our line. “Aren’t these woods gorgeous, Mr. deVeers?”

“I told you to call me Charles,” he reminded me, grinning. He might’ve been seventy or so, but the man hadn’t broken a sweat. Neither had his daughter, but then again, I suspected she was half reptile. “By the way,” he added, “I loved your idea for the new logo.” Goodbye, long silly name with floating plastic bag, hello simple, stylish initials.

“I’m so glad,” I said, not daring to look at Muriel.

“Callie, I was telling Charles about the ad campaign we put together for that ski resort last year,” Mark said. He gave me a little grimace, which I read clearly. He needed help buttering up the client, and no one could pitch woo the way I could.

I smiled at Charles. “Oh, that was a great time, let me tell you, Charles.” Wwwweeerrrrrggghhh. I quickly burst into laughter to cover the gurgling slosh of my stomach. Was that one over? Apparently not. Boooorrr … I talked over it, hoping no one else noticed as our feet crunched along. “Well, we like to know our products, of course, so Mark and I went up there to get the lay of the land. Now, Mark here, he grew up on skis. Me? No.”

“Uh-oh,” Charles said.

“I love to ski,” Muriel said. “Dad, we should go to Utah again.”

“That would be fun, honey. Go on, Callie,” Charles said to me. Muriel’s mouth tightened.

Wwwwweeerrrrrgggghhh.

“Are you hungry, dear?” Charles asked, striding manfully along.

“Oh, no! Well, I skipped lunch. Didn’t want to cramp up on this lovely hike. But I’m fine!” I said, beaming, trying to suck in enough oxygen at the same time. I reached down to pet my dog, hoping the motion would somehow assuage the alien life force in my belly. Another cramp lanced through my side, making me gasp. I coughed to cover. “Anyway, Mark told me not to worry, just go up the mountain with Skip, the owner of the resort. It wasn’t really about skiing.” I gave Mark a look. “So he said, right, Mark?”

“I’m still sorry,” Mark answered, smiling at me.

I’d worked with Mark long enough to understand his signals. He needed me to work the crowd, and work it I did. I continued with the story, which involved me, too terrified to get off the ski lift, clutching Skip so that he couldn’t get off, either, riding back down the hill, then up once more, finally tangling skis with Skip, causing him to fall about ten feet onto hard-packed snow. The ski patrol had to come not only for their fallen boss, but to give me a ride down, since I could neither ski nor walk in those boots.

“Did you get the account?” Charles asked, smiling at me.

“Of course we did!” I said. Berrrrrrroooo. “Hahahaha! Skip was so impressed that I’d gone six thousand feet up a mountain I couldn’t get down, he had to hire us.”

“So you’ll do anything for a client, is that it?” Charles winked.

“Anything within reason,” I confirmed. Unfortunately, my stomach was seriously cramping, and the trail was becoming steeper. Hopefully, my panting would cover the occasional bizarre noise coming from my intestinal tract. I felt a little dizzy.

“That’s a wonderful story, Callie. Mark, you have a gem here,” Charles said, slinging his arm around my shoulders.

“I sure do,” Mark answered, smiling at me. His dark eyes were grateful. For a second, it was like the old times. Mark and me, getting our job done. A great team.

Then Muriel said, “Well, I’m dying to get to the top. Shall we stop strolling and start making time? Dad, think you can keep up with me, old man?”

“Them’s fighting words,” Charles said, releasing me. “Mark? Callie? You in?”

“Absolutely,” Mark answered.

“Um, I’ll wait for my brother,” I said, glancing back at Fred and the rest of the gang, who were now maybe thirty yards behind. The stitch in my side was more like a quilt now.

“See you at the top, then,” Charles said, and with that, they forged ahead, long athletic strides. Bowie whined to go with the fast people, but the second they were a safe distance off, I staggered over to a relatively flat rock and collapsed, draping an arm over my eyes. These bike shorts were awful! Would that I could peel them off and jump into a shower right about now. Curl up in some clean pj’s, watch a little Deadliest Catch and have indoor plumbing ten feet away.

“You okay?” Pete and Leila asked in unison as they approached, Damien just behind them.

“I’m good. Just resting a little,” I lied, peeking at them. Just cleansing and purging, more like it.

“You look like death,” Damien said.

“And you look like a monkey in those clothes,” I returned halfheartedly.

“See you at the top. Don’t worry. We’re almost halfway there.” Leila slapped my knee and kept going.

Almost halfway there. God, take me now! And how could those pale computer dweebs be in such great shape, huh?

Bwihhhhheerrrrgggghhh. Ack! That one hurt! I pictured that notable scene from Alien all too clearly. If only the creature would just burst out and end my misery! Cleanse and purge, my God! Was childbirth like this? New sweat broke out on top of my old sweat, and I tried to breathe, Lamaze-like, through the pain. Too bad Hester wasn’t around to slip me an epidural. Bowie looked up at me and smiled his doggy smile, and I managed to smile back.

“Hey, Calorie.” It was Freddie this time. “You got a beer?”

“No, of course I don’t,” I said weakly. “I’m dying.” Bowie licked my face, attempting revival.

“I call your car,” my brother said.

I struggled to sit up. “You’re such a sweet brother. If I die, everything goes to the nieces, okay? Nothing for you. Fleur, you’re a witness.”

“Can do,” she said, sitting next to me. She was panting, which made me grateful. “I could murder a cuppa right now.”

Ian, however, seemed irritatingly unaffected by our little hike up the mountain. He ignored me (and I was grateful, as I didn’t want yet another person commenting on those god-awful noises). Instead, he put his hands in the pockets of his hiking shorts—L.L. Bean, not the sweaty plastic kind—and surveyed the view. I surveyed it as well … the view of Ian, that was. Nice legs. I’d guess soccer as a child. Excellent ass. Lovely broad shoulders.

“What a view,” he said quietly. For a second, I thought he was referring to himself, but no. In the fun of my melting intestines here, I’d almost forgotten the lookout. Our particular stopping place overlooked Heron Lake, two thousand feet below. The water glowed a deep, dark blue, and all around, pine and fir trees rose, the thick wall of green broken only by mighty falls of granite left by the glaciers thousands of years ago. The setting sun, though still strong, turned the towering cumulus clouds a rich, creamy gold against the paling sky. It was quite a sight indeed.

Gluuurrrreeeeggghhh. I folded my arms against my gut, trying to muffle the noise, hoping the birdsong would camouflage it.

“What the hell is going on in your stomach?” Freddie asked. Once, I loved him. Now, not so much.

“I’m a little sick,” I whispered, glancing at Ian. Wondered if he might euthanize me right about now, put me out of my misery. There was no way in hell I was going to make it up to the top of the trail, not with an alien chewing its way out of my abdomen. Squeeerrrrggh. Bowie whined in sympathy, his tail thumping the ground.

“Well, do you want me to stay? Or should I keep going?” my brother asked.

“Keep going, by all means,” I said, waving in the general direction of the peak. There was no point in having him stay … he tended to laugh when people were sick or grieving, that kind of unhelpful, irrepressible, inappropriate laughter. “Get a ride home, okay? I’ll meet everyone else at the restaurant for dinner.”

“Okay, sis. See you later.” Like a youthful mountain goat, Freddie practically skipped off the steepening trail. I should’ve brought Hester.

“Have fun,” I said, but he was already out of earshot. Bowie yipped twice, then began licking his front paw.

“So what were you chatting about with the BTR crew?” Fleur asked.

“Oh, nothing specific. We were just schmoozing,” I said, glancing at her. “We’ll have a real meeting soon, and I’m sure you’ll be in on it.”

“Right.” She gave me a tight smile. While Fleur was a pretty decent coworker, I knew she didn’t like that I was above her in the chain of command. She was five years older than I was, and there wasn’t much of a ladder to climb at Green Mountain.

“Well, Ian, luv, we should push off,” Fleur said. “Mark’ll get all humped up if all of us …” she paused, clearly unable to find a Britishism for her next phrase “… wimp out.” She glanced at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a tosser.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Go on, have fun. Tell Mark I’ll meet you all at the restaurant, okay?”

“Cheerio.” She hopped to her feet. “Let’s go then, Ian, shall we?” she asked, extending her hand. Bowie leaped up, hoping to go as well, as he was more than capable of running up and down this mountain six or eight times without feeling the slightest twinge of fatigue.

Ian turned around from where he was still surveying the view. He looked at me for a long moment. “I’ll stay with Callie,” he said.

“No, no!” I barked. “Go! Off with you! I’m fine.”

Fleur shot me a sharp look. “We really need to catch up, Ian,” she said, her accent evaporating.

“Go on, you two. I’m fine,” I said, trying not to pant (or moan). Gooorrrreeeeccchhh.

“I’ll stay,” he repeated.

“I really, really don’t want you to,” I said firmly.

“I will anyway.” He didn’t move, just stood there, hands in his pockets.

“Please don’t.”

“I am.”

Fleur’s eyes darted back and forth between us. “Well, then, I’ll stay, too. Keep you company, Callie.”

“You go ahead,” Ian said. “It’s your company’s event, after all.”

My alien gave another squirm, and I flinched.

Fleur took a huffy breath. “Well, right-o,” she said. “See you at the base, then.”

“I may have to leave before then,” he said. “I’m on call at the animal hospital tonight.”

Her mouth tightened briefly, but she covered with a quick smile. “Well, I’ll probably see you down there, at any rate. Great! Thanks for staying with poor Callie! You’re a prince.” She made a move toward him, almost like she was going to hug him, but Ian just stood, hands still in his pockets, and Fleur retreated. The sound of her hiking boots faded within seconds.

Ian sat down next to me. “You okay?”

“I’m great, Ian,” I lied. “You don’t need to stay with me.”

“Can I take your pulse?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine. It’s just … I skipped lunch. That’s all. I really don’t need a nurse. Or a vet.”

He didn’t answer, just stared off into the woods, which were lovely, dark and deep, just as Robert Frost said, and unlike the poet, I wouldn’t have minded going to sleep right now.

The only sound was birdsong, the rustle of the wind in the pines and Bowie’s slight snore. The alien seemed to be quieting down (please, God), and the sweet and piney breeze seemed to blow away that sick, foggy feeling bit by bit. My stomach emitted a small groan, but nothing like before.

“Maybe you could eat some grass and throw up,” Ian suggested. “Works for dogs.”

I glanced at him. He was still looking off into the woods, and I studied his craggy profile. “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have any Tums or anything.”

“Sorry,” he said, cutting his eyes to me.

I felt heat rise in my face. Those eyes were startlingly direct. “So, are you from around here, Ian?” I asked.

“I moved here from Burlington two months ago,” he said.

“Where’d you grow up?”

He looked back into the woods. “All over.”

“Army brat?” I guessed.

“No.” He didn’t elaborate.

“So,” I said after realizing he was done with that subject. “Fleur invited you to our little thing.”

“Yes,” he said, reaching down to pet Bowie, whose tail thumped appreciatively. “I was under the impression that it was more of a town-sponsored thing. Open to the public.”

“Oh. Well, sorry for ruining it for you,” I murmured.

“I can’t believe anyone would buy something called Cleanse ‘n Purge,” he commented, raising an eyebrow.

Ah, dang it. Humiliation and me—no bounds. “Bowie, would you please bite Dr. McFarland?”

Bowie rolled onto his back. Here’s my stomach, in case anyone’s in a scratching mood, he was clearly saying. I obliged, since I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

My GI distress seemed to have subsided. “I should probably head down,” I said. “I’m feeling better. Thanks for waiting. You can join the others.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he said, surprising me. He stood up, offered his hand and, after a second, I took it.

It was a good hand, callused and warm and strong, what you’d expect from a man who made animals better. A current of electricity ran up my arm and straight to my groin, and it took me a moment to realize that Ian had let go, though my hand was still extended. Blushing yet again, I put said hand to use, grabbed Bowie’s leash and started down the path.

“This is a beautiful spot,” Ian said.

“You should come back,” I said. “Think that view’s pretty now, wait about six weeks.”

We walked along in companionable silence, my stomach still somewhat sore but without the lancing pain of earlier. Bowie sniffed and tugged until I decided to let him off the leash, so he could bound ahead.

“Nice dog,” Ian said.

“Thanks. How’s Angie? She’s not a hiker?”

“I didn’t realize dogs were allowed,” he said. “But she’s fine. Thank you.”

I swatted at a few mosquitoes, which were attracted to my sweat, as I was clad in plastic. Something BTR’s research and development might want to work on. I glanced at Ian, who looked as cool as if we were in Siberia. Those Arctic eyes were just about the same color as the sky today. Ian was tall, too, about six-two, and I had a sudden urge to see him without his shirt. Bet it was nice under that shirt. Bet he looked pretty damn—

“So. Your boss. Mark,” Ian said, interrupting my lustful thoughts. “That was the guy you were crying over in the DMV?”

My jaw clenched. My stomach, too, resulting in another gurgle. “Yes,” I said tightly. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. It was a memorable day, that’s all.”

“Indeed,” I muttered. He didn’t say anything else. A mockingbird trilled above us. My stomach twinged as if answering, but no sounds emerged, thankfully. “Do you have any siblings, Ian?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

He glanced at me as if assessing my ulterior motive in such a devious and personal question. “Um … yes. I do. Alejandro.”

“Ooh, I love that name! Wasn’t Zorro’s name Alejandro?”

“I don’t know.” His mouth pulled up one side.

“Alejandro McFarland. I wouldn’t put those two names together.”

“We have different fathers. His last name is Cabrera.”

“Better,” I said. “Is he gorgeous? He sounds gorgeous.” I was rewarded by a quick smile, complete with attractive laugh lines fanning out from his rather shockingly lovely eyes. Pleased, I blushed a little and looked away.

“Callie,” Ian said, “when you mentioned doing some PR for me, how would that work?”

Well, knock me over with a feather! “Is business down?”

“A little,” he said, not looking at me. “What did you have in mind when you came into the office that day?”

I had nothing in mind, Ian, as I was, in fact, checking you out. “Um, well … basically, we’d make you seem really … approachable.” He didn’t say anything. “I’m sure you’ve heard people tell you over and over again how great and sweet and wonderful Dr. Kumar is, which is all absolute fact. So, of course, you’re going to look a little, er, frosty compared to him. Don’t worry. We’ll make people like you.”

He gave me a veiled look. “By which you’ve just implied that people currently don’t.”

“Oops.” I laughed. “No, no. Well, we’ll make them like you more. Don’t worry. That’s a specialty of mine.”

He said nothing.

“See, we’d turn you—Ian, this standoffish guy who dislikes single women—into the human equivalent of a golden retriever. Warm, fuzzy, affectionate. The warm and fuzzy campaign. It’ll be great!”

“I don’t dislike single women, Callie,” he said coolly. “I just don’t appreciate them wasting my time by pretending to have a sick animal.”

“Touché, Dr. McFarland,” I answered. “Not that I’m copping to anything, of course.”

“Nor do I want to pretend to be something I’m not,” he continued, his words clipped. “I’m a capable vet. That should be enough.”

“Right, Ian. But if business is slacking off, then you might just have to … market yourself differently. Not be different. Just try a little harder, because I’m guessing that while you’re smart and know your vet stuff, maybe you’re not so, um … relaxed with people.”

He didn’t say anything, and I got the impression that I had hit a nerve. His eyelashes, which I heretofore hadn’t properly noticed, were blond. Blond and quite thick, really, which I could see as the sun was shining right on them.

“I could do it freelance,” I offered. “It would cost less, and it could be our guilty secret that way.” Actually, I’d have to check with Mark on that, but I was pretty sure it would be okay. The agency didn’t charge less than a couple thousand per account, and Ian’s little project would be far smaller than that.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then finally spoke. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“You do that,” I replied.

Ah, heaven. There was the end of the trail, and better still, the parking lot. My beloved Lancelot waited to take me home, where all the modern conveniences awaited. I’d have time to shower, beautify and change before meeting everyone for dinner. “Thanks for staying with me, Ian,” I said, clipping Bowie’s leash back onto his collar.

“You’re welcome,” he said. He stood with his arms folded, legs slightly apart, sort of like a sea captain on the deck of a frigate. Rather appealing, really.

“Bye,” I said.

“Bye,” he replied, and with that, I tugged on Bowie’s leash and bolted for my car.