Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 26

THREE DAYS LATER, realizing I’d crushed any fledgling romance between Ian and me, I was fighting the blues. I wanted to call him, but kept losing my nerve. I thought about posting a question on his Web site … Dr. McFarland, if a guy kisses you and then, through no fault of your own, you run into an old boyfriend, how do you get things back on track?

But all the dating manuals and Web sites warned fiercely against such an act. According to Slicing the Carotid: Fatal Mistakes Women Make in Relationships as well as Why the Man You Love Hates You, the very last thing I should do was pursue. Men are genetically predisposed to be the hunter/gatherers, one book said. Think of yourself as the woolly mammoth. Let the hunt come to you. I wasn’t sure about that advice, knowing just what happened to the woolly mammoths, but I got it. Besides, Ian had my home, office and cell numbers, my e-mail, my Facebook page and my street address. He was ignoring them all.

In other news, eCommitment showed that I’d had some interest from a fifty-three-year-old lumberjack with two ex-wives, seven children and nine dogs. Clearly, I’d run through all the available men in northeastern Vermont. Human Hair was looking better and better.

On Tuesday, Annie and I met for lunch at Toasted & Roasted, which was mobbed with senior citizen leaf peepers, and it was only because I’d danced with Gus at our eighth-grade mixer that we got a table. After hearing about my godson’s triumphs in the classroom, athletic field and dentist’s office, I brought my friend up to speed on my lack of a love life. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call him?” I asked, toying with my soup.

“Give him some space.” She took a bite of her French dip sandwich and chewed wisely.

“I hate space,” I muttered. “I’m much better at smothering, pestering and stalking. Space sucks.”

“Trust me,” she said, smiling. “I know everything.”

By Thursday, I decided that Annie in fact knew nothing and stalking was indeed the way to go. Hence, I decided to take my kayak for a little spin that evening on Granite Lake. Wasn’t like I’d never kayaked here before, was it? Sure, Ian’s dock was on the far side of this same lake, but that was hardly my fault. I’d been kayaking here long before any vet moved in.

I unloaded the boat, got my paddle from Lancelot’s hatch and clicked on my life vest. “In you go, Bowie,” I said. My dog leaped neatly into the front seat of the kayak, pleased as punch.

Twenty minutes later, I sighted Ian’s dock. He wasn’t there, and his house was too far to see from the water. Too bad. I’d rather hoped he’d be sitting out here, mooning after me. I bobbed there a moment, the waves slapping the side of the kayak. Then, with a gusty sigh, I turned my trusty vessel around and headed back. But the fresh air and exercise soothed my soul a little nonetheless; it was hard to be blue with Bowie, who sat in quivering attendance upfront, his head turning sharply whenever he sensed a fish or a turtle or an amoeba.

Vermont was at its most beautiful this week, the height of leaf season, the foliage so pure and brilliant it was almost a physical sensation. The early October evening was soft, the setting sun cutting in golden shards through the gray clouds. In just a few weeks, all this would be gone, just an achingly beautiful memory ‘til next year, and the long, white winter would be upon us.

Another kayak came cutting across the lake. A couple about my own age paddled vigorously, their cheeks glowing with the cool air and exercise. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I called.

“It sure is!” the man answered. “Guess what? We’re getting married! She just said yes!” The woman flapped her left hand, ostensibly to show me her ring.

“Oh, mazel tov!” I called merrily, though a quick vision of them capsizing flashed satisfyingly across my brain. They waved, in love with life, and continued on their happy way.

“Want to be my boyfriend, Bowie?” I asked, huffing away. He did, of course. He twisted neatly out of his seat and took a step or two to lick my face. “See? You’re very attuned to my moods. You don’t snore. You’re quite attractive. Okay, that’s probably enough, boy. You’re a dog, after all, and this sounds perverted. Go sit down.”

Bowie returned to his seat and continued his search for minnows. As the twilight thickened, I made it back to shore. Bowie jumped out and watched as I hauled the kayak onto the roof of my car and took off my life vest. With one more look across the lake, I opened the car door. “Come on, boy,” I said, then buckled him into his doggy seat belt and kissed his furry head.

My melancholy returned as I started Lancelot and trundled down the dirt road away from Granite Lake. Work wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t the same. Last night, I’d scouted out Craigslist, but there’d been nothing, just a sales position for a dying newspaper in New Hamster. I’d be kind of dumb to quit in this economy, give up all those nice perks and bennies. “Maybe I’ll go into the family business,” I told Bowie. “Not that I want to be around dead people all day, but I would have job security.”

Suddenly, a huge wild turkey came running out of the woods to my right. The thing was enormous, and it was sprinting as if being chased, its wings flapping, clearly preparing for takeoff. And on a collision course with my car! “Watch out!” I called, slamming on the brakes. I flung my arm protectively in front of Bowie, who barked in surprise, and we jerked to a stop, our seat belts locking.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered. There’d been a thud. I was almost sure of it. Heart pounding sickly, I got out of the car, my hands over my mouth, prepared to see turkey carnage.

There it was, lying on the side of the dirt road. One wing flapped weakly, then stopped.

“No!” I cried. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” I wrung my hands as I approached. The turkey didn’t move again. I couldn’t tell if it was breathing. “Please don’t be dead,” I squeaked.

Sobs jerking out of my chest, I went to the back of my car and opened the hatch. Stupid Lancelot! Why did I buy a Prius? If only it made some noise, the poor bird would’ve been warned. “Please don’t be dead,” I repeated.

I grabbed the tarp I always kept in the car for my dripping paddles. Bowie whined in inquiry. “We hit it,” I said wetly, then returned to the turkey.

It was horribly still. Like all turkeys, it was an ugly brute … a tom, a male. In the fading light, its feathers looked dull and black, the bald, rough-skinned head in shades of red and chalky blue. The bird’s legs were long and strong, with spurs on the back for defense. Not that it did much good against my car.

My hands shaking with fear and adrenaline, I lay down the tarp next to the bird, then got the paddle from my car. Closing my eyes with the horror of the job, I used the paddle to gently push the huge bird onto the plastic, gagging at the flopping sound its body made. “I’m so sorry, so so sorry,” I wept, then gathered up the ends of the plastic, making a sling so I wouldn’t actually have to touch the bird. Half dragging it—it was heavier than I expected, maybe twenty pounds—half swinging it, I got it over to the trunk, still crying, then sort of swung it inside. One talon stuck out from the tarp, making me cringe. Poor, innocent thing. “Please don’t be dead,” I said, tears sluicing down my cheeks. Then I closed the hatch, ran to the driver’s seat, threw the car into Drive and floored it, my tires slipping on the rough road.

In all my life, I’d never hit an animal before. Not even a squirrel. Not even a chipmunk! It was quite a feat, living up here in the boonies, and something I’d always been proud of. I could hear myself crying, a long, low whimper that caused my dog to howl softly as well. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead,” I chanted, ignoring Bowie, who tried to twist around to get a better sniff at our quiet passenger. We came onto pavement, and I pressed the accelerator harder, the trees whipping past in a blur of color. Bitter Creek Road, a hard left. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead.”

There. Number seventy-five, a black mailbox marking the nearly hidden driveway. I turned so hard and fast the car fishtailed, causing Bowie to yip and scrabble to keep his footing on the car seat.

Thank God! There were lights on. He was home.

I hurtled out of the car, popped open the trunk, grabbed the tarp edges and swung the package out, then ran awkwardly up the steps, cringing as my shins bumped the turkey.

Ian was already opening the door. “Callie? What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I killed it,” I blurted, my tears flowing anew. Pushing past him, I staggered through the great room and slung the tarp onto the table. “I killed a turkey.”

“Callie, I eat there,” he said, eyeing the bundle. “And have you ever heard of avian flu?”

“That was just a scare tactic used by the Bush admin—Ian, can you just check it? In case it’s maybe still alive? Or not quite dead? Please?” I took a shuddering breath, then ran to the sink to wash my hands. The bird might not have avian flu, and I didn’t actually touch it, but Ian had a point.

“Sure,” he said, following me into the kitchen.

“If it needs to … you know. To be put down, do you have the stuff here?” I said raggedly, wiping my hands.

“Yes.” Opening a drawer, he took out a pair of latex gloves, then passed me a box of tissues. “If you hit it, Callie, it probably is dead,” he said gently, pulling on the gloves. “They don’t have much chance against a car.”

I nodded, tears still leaking out of my eyes. I had no great love for turkeys, but I didn’t hate them, either. I certainly didn’t want to kill any. Even at Thanksgiving, I always felt a pang … sure, I ate heartily—I loved turkey—but … there’d always been that pang.

Ian went over to the table and lifted the tarp-wrapped bird down onto the floor. He knelt beside it and pulled back the plastic. “Wow, this is a big one,” he murmured. I approached, standing just behind Ian, and without thinking, I reached out and gripped his shoulder, biting my lip hard. The bird’s eyes were open and unblinking, and it didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Is it dead?” I whispered, tears dropping onto Ian’s shirt.

He looked up at me. “It seems to be.”

My face scrunched. “Oh, dammit,” I squeaked. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

“Now, Callie, come on,” Ian said, rising. He took off his gloves and dropped them on the floor, then took my shoulders. “You couldn’t help it.” His eyes were kind. “It happens all the time.”

“I never hit an animal before,” I whispered, fighting off sobs, though my breath still hitched in and out.

“I’ll bury it,” he offered.

“Oh, thank you, Ian,” I said.

Suddenly, there was a great flutter and a scrabbling. Instinctively, I ducked, and Ian whirled around.

The turkey wasn’t dead. No, it was quite alive. It flapped and heaved, then managed to get onto its huge taloned feet. It gave a weird sort of throaty growl … Goooorrr … Gooorrrr, and tilted its head suspiciously.

“You said it was dead!” I hissed.

“It must’ve been in shock,” he answered. “Don’t just stand there. Open the door so it can get out.”

I backed away so as not to startle it, then opened the door through which I’d just come. Ian slowly approached the bird.

“Easy, turkey,” Ian murmured. “Out you go.” He circled behind it, and the bird took a few steps toward the front … and me … “Good turkey,” Ian said soothingly. “Out the door with—”

Suddenly the bird burst into another great flutter of wings and sprinted right at me. I screamed, the bird veered to the left, dodged around a chair, knocked into an end table, tipping it. There was a crash, and the bird went airborne. “Gloogloogloogloo!” it screeched. “Gloogloogloo!”

From the den came a blur of red. Angie. “No, Angie!” Ian yelled, but Angie, after all, was an Irish setter, bred for just this thing, and she sped after the bird, which landed awkwardly on the kitchen table. Angie leaped, the bird flew, hitting the chandelier and causing it to sway crazily. The turkey tried to land on the bookcase, but there wasn’t enough room, and flapped toward me. “No! Get away!” I yelled, collapsing to my knees and covering my head. “Kill it, Ian! Kill it!”

“Callie, stop scaring it away from the door!” Ian barked. “And I’m not going to kill it! Weren’t you just bawling over this thing?”

The bird landed on the couch, then fluttered down and ran into the den. Angie lunged and Ian tackled her, managing to grab her collar. “No, girl! Stay! Callie, open the sliders, for God’s sake!”

I power-crawled across the floor and opened the sliders that led to the deck. Angie was whining, trying to get away from Ian, who was half lying across her. From in the den came some more crashing and turkey growls.

“Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” I called. Laughter wriggled dangerously in my stomach.

Goooorr … gooorrr … “Go in there and flush it out,” Ian said.

“Yeah, right,” I snorted. “I’m not going in there. You go.” Goooorr …

“I’m holding the dog.”

“Well, I’ll hold the dog, then,” I said, crawling over to Ian and Angie. “I’m not going in there. It’s a man job. Testosterone required. Besides, it might peck me.”

“It should peck you. You’re the one who hit it,” Ian muttered, but once I had the dog by her collar, he stood up. “Don’t let go of Angie,” he warned.

“Yes, Doctor,” I said. “Now good luck in there. I’ll take a drumstick.” A wheezing laugh burst out of me.

“Great,” Ian muttered, giving me a look. He went in, and Angie wagged her tail, wishing her master luck. I waited, burying my face in Angie’s silky fur. One … two … three …

“Gloogloogloogloo!”

“Watch out, here it comes!” Ian yelled.

The bird came sprinting out, wings flapping, and Angie lunged again, barking for all she was worth. I caught a glimpse of hideous bird legs, felt the wind from its wings and couldn’t help but shrieking. “Ian! Get it out of here!”

“Easy for you to say!” he called, scrambling after the bird.

Then the bird must have finally smelled freedom, because it turned its ugly head, spotted the great outdoors and sprinted through the front door, down the porch steps. I heard Bowie’s explosion of barking. “Is it safe?” I called after a minute.

“Yes,” Ian answered, so I let his dog go. She immediately began sniffing all the good turkey smells. I hoisted myself onto my feet.

Ian stood in the great room, breathing hard. I went over and stood next to him.

“I don’t think it’s dead after all,” I said. Ian cut his gaze to me, and I doubled over with laughter, clutching the doorframe.

“Very funny,” he said drily. “Why don’t you let Bowie out of the car? He can go in the backyard with Angie. It’s fenced in.” He turned and went into the kitchen.

I obeyed, still laughing. “I’m sorry you missed all the fun, Bowie,” I giggled, unclipping my dog. “But now you can play in the back with Angie, how’s that?” I followed my dog inside, and the smile slid off my face.

Ian’s house, his perfectly ordered, beautifully furnished house, was a wreck. Two tables were overturned, a vase or wineglass or something had broken, and shards of glass lay in a puddle. Feathers littered the floor here and there. A few books and a picture or two had fallen from the bookcase. The kitchen table was askew, and one of the chairs had tipped. A glimpse into the den showed similar damage.

Angie was already in the backyard, so I ushered my dog through the slider, then closed it behind me. “I’ll clean up, Ian,” I said, biting my lip as I surveyed the wreckage. Several envelopes were scattered about, and I picked them up. Interspersed with the expected phone bill and such were a few other addresses … Heifer International, Doctors Without Borders, Hole in the Wall Gang. “Pledge week?” I asked, setting them down.

“Guilt,” he answered. He was rolling up his sleeve. His bloody sleeve.

“Ian, you’re cut!” I exclaimed, leaping over to him.

“Yes,” he said.

“What happened? Was it the turkey?”

“No,” he answered, glancing at me. “I caught it on the edge of the bookcase.”

I took his wrist and turned it so I could see. It wasn’t too bad, a long scratch, but it was bleeding a fair amount.

“Where’s your first-aid kit?” I asked.

“I can do it,” he said.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was standing close enough to him to feel his warmth. That he was wearing jeans and a white oxford. That his lashes were long and straight and somehow tender. That he was looking at me steadily, and that even though he could probably clean up this cut in a New York minute, I really, really wanted to take care of him.

“I insist,” I said, my voice a little husky.

Ian reached for a paper towel and held it against his forearm. “In there, then,” he said, nodding to a cabinet.

There it was, a blue plastic case, neatly labeled First Aid. I took it out and looked at the patient. He was leaning against the counter, still holding the paper towel against his arm. Watching me. Intently.

My knees started to tingle. Face felt warm. Girl parts on the alert.

I opened the first-aid kit, which contained a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of gauze, some ointment, Band-Aids, the usual. “So,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Um, let’s wash it off, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice.

I took his hand—it was such a good hand, big and strong and capable, just like you’d want a vet’s hand to be. And holding his hand meant I was close to him, which was definitely having an effect on me. My heart thudded harder as I turned on the water and held his arm under it, our sides pressed together. He felt awfully wonderful, all warm and big and … Focus, Callie. First aid, remember?

Yes. Well. The bleeding had stopped … it really was just a scratch, but you know what? I was going to take good care of that scratch.

Ian didn’t talk as I poured some hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, patted the scratch, then blotted his arm dry. It was disconcerting, being so close to him that I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His forearm was perfect, muscled and tan, sprinkled with blond hair, the tendons moving under his smooth skin as he moved his hand.

“I’ll just … um … just put on a little of this … gooey stuff … how’s that?” I asked, reaching for the … gooey stuff.

“Sounds good,” he said.

I sneaked a peek at his face. There was a hint of a smile in those blue eyes, and I looked down quickly, feeling my cheeks prickle with a telltale blush.

Still holding his hand, I smeared some bacitracin (that was the name!) on his cut, running my forefinger from just above his wrist to his elbow. The skin was perfect, the muscles solid beneath. Lovely. The inside of his elbow was soft and tender by comparison, and I ran my finger across the skin there.

Realizing my first-aid application had morphed into vet-fondling, I yanked back my hand and groped for the roll of gauze. It was either use the gauze or use about nine Band-Aids, because the scratch was pretty long. But my hands were clumsy, and it was harder than it should’ve been. I wrapped his arm up firmly, then began tying the gauze ends in a knot.

“That’s a little tight,” Ian said. I looked up. His mouth pulled up in the corner, and he held out his hand, which was turning quite red, the veins in his wrist starting to bulge.

“Sorry!” I said, hastily untying the knot and unwrapping the bandage. “Okay. Ian’s boo-boo, take two.”

This time, the gauze was too loose and kept slipping down. Plus, it was a little soggy from overapplication of the gooey stuff, so I grabbed a Band-Aid, tore it open and used it to hold the gauze in place. Added another one. This bandaging job was starting to look like Josephine—or Bowie—had done it. Not to mention that those Band-Aids were going to take some arm hair with them when Ian took this thing off. And still it was droopy! I adjusted the gauze wrap a bit, but it slid right back down, so I just patted his arm instead.

“How’s that?” I asked, looking up at him.

He was smiling. Not a lot, just a little, and more than enough. “Perfect,” he murmured.

Without another thought, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed the living daylights out of him.

His arms, injured and otherwise, went around me, pulling me against him. One hand slid through my hair, and he kissed me back fiercely. He was solid and, oh, just wonderful, his arms strong, his body hard, and he smelled like soap and rain. I leaned into him, my hands going through his soft, short hair, and deepened the kiss, getting a most satisfactory groan in return. My God, he felt so good, so … reassuring, somehow, so real and warm and safe, and his mouth was soft and hard at the same time, and he kissed me with such heat and intensity that I could barely stand. In the turkey struggles, my shirt had come untucked, and Ian’s hand slid under it, hot against my skin. My leg, my ruttish leg, was wrapped around his, and in another minute, I’d be pulling a Bowie. His mouth lowered to my neck, his hand moved to cover my breast, and my knees buckled and my head fell back, and for a second, I thought I might just slide to the floor in a boneless heap, pulling him on top of me.

Then his mouth found mine again, and oh, that kiss, that life-changing kiss, because really, that’s how it felt, a kiss that meant something, promised something, made you want all sorts of things. It took me a minute to realize he was looking at me. My breath came in short little gasps, and underneath my hand, I could feel Ian’s heart thudding fast and hard.

He didn’t say anything for a second, just tucked some hair behind my ears and looked at me, right into my eyes.

“Would you like to stay?” he asked, running his thumb over my lower lip.

I swallowed. Then I nodded. “Should we clean up first?” I whispered, glancing at the devastation the turkey had wrought.

“No,” he said, then he took my hand and led me upstairs.